


Demolition Lovers

by penceyprat



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Apartments, Artist Gerard Way, Asshole Frank Iero, Awkward Gerard Way, Casual Sex, Depression, Drugs, F/F, F/M, Fucked Up, Gangs, Graffiti, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Prostitution, Self-Medication, Sexual Content, Shitty Apartment Block AU, Slut Frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 85,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penceyprat/pseuds/penceyprat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard draws dicks for a living. Frank takes them.</p>
<p>Gerard Way moves into a new apartment in a dodgy complex where he's bound to get beaten to a pulp after his old place is set on fire by those damned 'youths', and by a certain turn of events, his neighbour, the equally provocative, yet entirely in a different way, Frank Iero, ends up in his bed, and then, everything just really goes to shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction To Faggot Number One & Faggot Number Two

Frank Iero was a mess.

His apartment was a mess, his family was a mess, his social life was a mess, his mind was a mess, and right now, his bed was an absolute mess, or at least it was most certainly going to be.

Frank always made sure that people came. It was just manners, really, or at least he thought so, or at least those were the only manners that the twenty four year old apartment dweller both knew of an abided by, at least on a regular basis.

Maybe he'd say thank you to the girl with the tits who worked at the off license down the road, or maybe the guy that lived upstairs and made sure to jack off really loudly in an apartment building where the walls were as thin as paper.

But, really, Frank didn't seem to real care about anything at all, he just knew he liked a good fuck and getting so high that he'd forget all about it, and the next night would be a whole new experience once again, and Frank liked ignoring his parents and telling his sister that 'yes, he could keep living this', and watching as she turned her nose up at him and disowned him for the hundredth time.

And Frank liked to take pills - two everyday. Not the ones he was prescribed, but the ones he prescribed himself, and the ones that seemed to be entirely more effective, because maybe those little blue capsules were the only sure-fire way that he forget who he was and what on earth he was doing in this shitty apartment for an hour or two.

That was Frank's second favourite kind of bliss. First, of course, being a good orgasm, but he hadn't actually, properly came in months now - it had juts been other people just for a bit of cash or because he was far too intoxicated to properly annunciate the word 'no'. He didn't mind, though, it was just life, it was just business, and as long as it ensured that he still wasn't homeless, then it was totally fine in his eyes, even if this shitty apartment building was only one step up from being homeless, it was still that.

Frank had a lot of sex, and Frank had a lot of casual fucks and by now he reckoned that he didn't have a side of the sheets that weren't stained to shit with things he'd rather not think about, so there was one of the advantages of passing out on the floor every night, and the other was of course forgetting all about it in the morning.

He liked forgetting - it was like existing without the living and breathing without the life, and sex without the fun, and maybe the latter was the only downside in his eyes, because Frank really liked sex, and this just wasn't any kind of fun, this was just the same old every night, and the only different being the person he was with.

Not that Frank would remember them anyway.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck me!" Frank always made people come, and this time was most certainly no exception, especially with this guy's face, and really Frank had better make at least some attempt to remember his name before he asked for the money he offered, or he doubted that he'd be tipped at all.

Frank wasn't a prostitute, not really. Well, he was just that kind of guy that had a reputation for sleeping around and being good at it, and when you had a reputation like that, it didn't hurt to make something off it, surely? Especially when you could barely afford a flat like this.

Frank pulled his jeans on in silence - his CD player had broken last week after some guy had kicked it off the table, and he hadn't managed to get someone drunk enough to guilt trip them into somehow getting him a new one; actually buying a new one was most certainly nothing but a ludicrous dream right now.

"Do you want paying in pills or cash?" The gruff voice broke his thoughts like a wine glass against concrete when your hand was trembling just far too much to hold onto to the fragile glass anymore. "Well?"

"Cash." Frank exhaled, answering with reluctance, and forcing himself to chose his rent over his next high - he could get that off some other guy, surely. He ran a hand back through his hair as he turned back to face the guy who just had his dick in Frank's ass: he was over six foot and well built with a few tattoos and Frank wasn't exactly a genius, but he was clever enough to know that this wasn't a guy he was going to mess with.

"Fifty, huh?" The guy, who Frank still couldn't recall the name of, asked in confirmation, and this time, Frank simply nodded, not wanting to question the authority of a guy well-built and over six foot tall.

"Yeah, fifty." Frank confirmed, holding his hand out for the guy to place the cash into, before pocketing it, and glancing nervously around the room for his cigarettes, and simply praying that they hadn't run out already, because it was kind of hard to respectably bum a smoke when you had some guy's come in your hair, not that bumming a smoke was ever any kind of respectable behaviour in the first place.

"You were good, sugar. I'll be coming again, soon, I hope." Frank rolled his eyes in the most discreet manner that he could muster, simply hoping that this asshole would be out of his flat and out of his life, perhaps for the next week or so, before the urge to slap him across the face simply got too much.

Being a 'vertically challenged' kind of guy, Frank had figured that starting fistfights with guys that stood like three heads taller than him, wasn't exactly the best of decision, and, unfortunately, he'd learned this the hard way - the way that came with a broken nose and nosebleed for days that had really fucked him over in medical bills.

He thought about cheering as the door was slammed behind the guy, but chose to celebrate much more civilly and perhaps with even less sophistication, with a cigarette, that was almost suspiciously damp, yet by some miracle, Frank still managed to light, and that was just a gift from God that he wasn't even going to dare questioning.

Frank had wanted to be a policeman. When he was six, that was, of course, but still even the thought of it had him bursting out into a fit of laughter, especially with the little bag half full of cocaine on his bedside table, and the cigarette between his lips, and the prostitution money in his back pocket - Frank would have made a shit policeman, and not just that, it seemed like Frank made a shit out of everything - a real mess.

Speaking of mess, Frank was going to have to seriously consider getting some new bed sheets from somewhere because right now this was getting ridiculous, and it seemed like the stains not washing off was nothing more of a side effect of God hating his guts.

Frank didn't even believe in God, so he raised his middle finger to the sky, well directed towards the shitty little window that blinds were thrown over, more than actually hung over, acting more as a storage place for the blinds that any kind of privacy measure.

Privacy was just a fucking joke for Frank.

Fucking, huh? Hilarious.

Frank rolled his eyes to himself as he busied himself with whatever shit was on TV - something about sex crimes and lies - whatever, he'd rather not see his own life on the shitty little box set from the nineties that the previous owner of the flat had pawned off someone by the name of 'Phil Foster', as it was scribbled on the back in green sharpie like his own special kind of graffiti.

In Frank's opinion, really he needed a new tag, because that was just mediocre at best, and the twenty four year old considered drawing something vulgar on the back of the TV set, but of course, when he got so desperate that he'd end up having to sell the thing, he soon come to realise that it was only him that quite saw the appeal of a TV with a rather realistic picture of a cock on the back.

Pretentious fuckers. 

In Frank's mind, there was nothing quite as smugly satisfying as the male genitalia, but that might have something to do with the fact that the word 'faggot' was thrown at him like confetti everyday in high school, and maybe, one day, Frank just thought 'why the hell not?' and sucked some cock like he was told to everyday, and it seems that the high school assholes weren’t wrong about something, because there was something about sucking cock that Frank loved, because maybe he was just a little fucking faggot, after all.

He wrote 'faggot' on the back of the TV instead, right underneath 'Phil Foster', but then crossed out the guy's name, because he didn't want this Foster guy to steal his title of king faggot - he'd certainly earned it.

-

Gerard Way's sheets were stained too - stained all over, and this was the kind of the mess that there was no hope when it came to cleaning off, but this wasn't the same kind of mess on Frank's sheets.

It seemed acrylic paint and come were too very different things - in many ways, such as the fact that one was supposed to be all over your cock and one wasn't. Whatever, Gerard liked painting nude, or perhaps, Gerard just liked being able to justify the fact that he was too lazy to actually get dressed with something suitably pretentious.

It wasn't like it mattered anyway: he painted nudes, usually from his own anatomy, because it wasn't like he was some neighbourhood whore with people lining up to show off the ins and outs of their bodies to him. So pudgy dicks it was - they sold on craigslist at the very least.

Gerard kind of reckoned that craigslist was his life saviour right now, because that was exactly where he'd gotten this shitty ass flat in the first place.

The twenty eight year old had moved in a few days ago, and had still mad no efforts when it came to unpacking anything besides his art supplies and a little bag of pills that he'd gotten off some guy back in his old apartment, which of course, had to be set fire to by some teenager fucker, and Gerard even felt like a senior citizen for grumbling at the youth, but he reckoned that not many grandpas stood around stark naked in a flat where the lock didn't even work properly.

Gerard liked to live on the wild side- well, maybe, it was just the fact that most of the time he was too stoned to care, and he was most certainly even too stoned to care about the sex noises coming from next door, whatever, perhaps it was even inspiring considering the nature of his art piece - dear god, why people actually bought this shit was just beyond him, but it was something that he was in no hurry to question at all.

The twenty eight year old, however soon found himself giving up on his cock painting, because his head started spinning and this flat came with the stench of cat piss, and perhaps that wasn't the most desirable of scents, and anyway, next door had stopped fucking, so his inspiration was already entirely gone, and he even considered going out and fucking someone, just for the sake of this damn painting, but maybe that was just something he wasn't going to stretch as far as trusting craigslist for.

Then again, there were real life people, and he hadn't exactly met the neighbours yet, but what were the odds that a gay twenty something year old attractive single guy was living right next to him - absolutely none, of course! It wasn't like the whole purpose of him moving into this flat was to fuck some guy that he hadn't even met yet, of course.

That would just be absolutely ridiculous, wouldn't it?

Gerard resorted to taking the pills - the kind he was supposed to take, and the tasted like shit and did nothing at all and it seemed that for the most part, these 'anti-depressants' did nothing but make him more depressed. It wasn't like he was all that depressed in the first place, anyway, there was just that one time that he tried to blow his brains out, but that was one time, and surely, loads of people had it worse than him.

He soon swallowed the pills and all the thoughts they plagued his mind with, washing them away with coffee - bitter and black, and a curse to the bottle of milk that seemed to have drained itself dry in his sleep. Maybe he had some sort of milk ghost living in his bathtub or something, now wouldn't that be odd?

Maybe then he could get some money off some bullshit reality TV at the very least. He wasn't all that sure that they'd like his cock paintings though, but whatever, it was reality TV, they'd suck up whatever bullshit they could fine.

However, if there was some kind of milk ghost, that did indeed mean that someone other than his family had actually seen him naked, granted, the guy was dead, but whatever, it was progress. Maybe, he'd just have to keep walking around naked and hoped that some attractive dude would end up walking in and then things would just go from there.

Fuck, Gerard wanted to punch himself in the face from just the thought, because dear god, he was just a fuck up, and that seemed to be the only word that could adequately describe the situation which he lived in, but at least, despite the fact that his cat stunk of cat piss, he hadn't actually found any actual cat piss, yet.

His cellphone vibrated against the kitchen table, and his forced himself away from his black bitter coffee bean water to glance at the promo offer his cellphone contract had decided to text him with the simple hope of tricking him into believing that he actually had friends.

Gerard was wrong.

Fortunately, it wasn't his contract provider.

Unfortunately, it was his brother.

And therefore, Gerard deleted the text and continued in the pretence that he'd changed his number and not that he simply didn't want anything to do with the asshole who had the perfect life, when he had nothing but a shitty apartment building and from walking around naked in this filth, AIDs, probably.

At four twenty in the afternoon, Gerard Way finally got up from the sofa, and started drawing on the walls, perhaps just because he could, but it was most likely due to now empty little bag of pills that weren't the kind that Gerard was supposed to take, not that any of that even seemed to vaguely matter anymore when all the twenty eight year old could see was stars and the text from his brother.

He wrote 'fuck off' on the wall, and he wanted to write it on the wall too, but even in such a state, Gerard had lived long enough to know that something like that would most certainly attract some kind of unwanted attention, and despite his rather provocative lifestyle, Gerard, did in fact want to stay away from the attention and under the radar in this apartment building - far too content with wasting his life away listening to his neighbours fuck and his other neighbours discuss the best way in which to bury a body, and really Gerard would suggest them a few little tips, but he doubted his input was at all desired, especially when he looked like the kind of guy that people in these kind of places would beat up for fun.

Gerard hadn't actually any experience when it came to burying human bodies, he just watched a lot of horror movies, and maybe the best thing about this shithole, was that he could watch those things on full volume without anyone even batting an eyelash in the direction of the bloodcurdling screams.

That and porn, of course.

Porn on full volume was another pro of this shithole, and he was most certainly looking forward to convincing his neighbours that at twenty eight he actually had some notion towards a sex life- hmm... perhaps it was for the best that he didn't converse with his neighbours at all, especially considering the whole burying a body thing from the neighbours on the right.

Gerard made a mental note to avoid them, but maybe the sex addict on his left could be in some way helpful, and he'd just have to pray that he was gay and male- fuck, this was just embarrassing, dear god, it was even embarrassing to be in his own head sometimes.

He wrote 'fuck off' on the wall again, this time as a mental reminder to himself and less of a warning to others, not that the guy with make up on was ever the kind of guy to be giving anyone a warning.

To put it simply, Gerard was a fucking faggot, and perhaps not so proud about it - at least that was one thing that he and his family had in common, because otherwise there was absolutely nothing, and they'd proved that by kicking him out ten years ago now, at the age of eighteen, and oh dear god, only when Gerard came to realise that that was eighteen years ago, was when he came to realise just what an absolute fuck up he'd made of his life.

Perhaps it was better if he just hid away in this apartment, in this bedroom and painted cocks and watched porn and horror movies, but not at the same time because maybe Gerard wasn't quite that kinky, whilst generally being an anti-social faggot forever.

And then he'd never have to speak to anyone again and things would be fine, well as long as he was drugged up enough to keep telling himself that, because if Gerard had noticed anything, it was incredibly hard to lie to himself sober.

However, that homosexual hermit plan of his really didn't seem to be going to plan at all, as the sound of someone clearing their throat made evident, and of course then, and only then, did Gerard realise that he was still naked.

-


	2. Paint Me Like One Of Your French Girls

Being naked in a room with a stranger was perhaps not one of Gerard's best ideas, well, it hadn't even been intentional, but that seemed to matter very little as time seemed to slow down in few seconds it took him to process the little cough, and then react to it, with a slow, and 'oh fuck I'm dead' turn around, preparing himself for the absolute worst - like some sixty year old man with a hunchback and a sudden desire to have sex with him, however, and yet only due to Gerard's head filling with the absolute worst case scenario, he found himself pleasantly surprised.

If he could pick who walked in on him naked, dear god, it was this guy: short black hair, piercing hazel eyes and skin covered in ink from head to toe, and really, Gerard wanted to rip those stupid black ripped jeans and that fucking shirt right off him, and see the ink that lay beneath, hidden like secrets in place that people weren't supposed to see.

Yet, this stranger saw everything of Gerard, and really, the twenty eight year old wasn't at all prepared, and in consequence, had resorted to staring at the stranger, and was perhaps even content in just eyefucking the guy who'd walked in and seen him buttnaked, that was of course until, the guy coughed once more, bringing Gerard falling back down to reality and blushing like fuck, because there wasn't a chance in hell that the guy hadn't pocked up upon Gerard checking him - after all, he was being just as obvious as it could possibly be.

"You've got a pretty little ass - I must say." The stranger remarked, breaking the silence with a smirk that ensured that the scarlet red colour never left Gerard's cheeks.

"Uhh... t-thanks?" The twenty eight year old managed to stutter out after a few more moments of silence, as he came to the realisation of just how absolutely screwed he was right now - dear god, the first impression he wasn't supposed to leave on people was his ass and- oh god, his dick... this guy could see everything, and yet somehow neither of the two seemed to have anywhere near as much of a problem with that fact as they should have done.

"You ever going to put some clothes on or at least make any attempt to cover yourself or what?" Frank smirked, eyebrows raised, leaving Gerard to the realisation of the fact that he'd practically been showing off his naked body to this guy that he didn't even know the name of.

"Fuck!" Gerard exclaimed, running into his bedroom and throwing on a pair of sweatpants and the first t-shirt he came across, then turning around to find the stranger at the doorway to his room, smirking, and then fucking winking at him.

"Shame really. You do look really pretty naked. You look fucking pretty regardless, but the clothes kind of get in the way of me looking at my favourite parts of the male anatomy." And the casualty with which the guy proclaimed his confession just about killed poor, shy, insecure Gerard... and his 'pretty little' ass.

"I don't even know your name and you've seen my fucking dick- I..." Gerard exclaimed, eyes open wide as the stranger took the liberty of sitting down on Gerard's bed, gesturing for the twenty eight year old to sit beside him, and somehow, not even reluctantly, Gerard found himself doing exactly as he was told.

"My name's Frank." The guy - Frank, broke the silence with an answer to Gerard's questions. "Frank Iero. I live next door."

Gerard's eyes widened, knowing that the guy was either the one having sex or discussing how to hide a body.

"Not the psychopaths that side." Frank grinned, gesturing to where the rather worrying discussion had come from. "But the other side." Frank gestured to the side of the sex moans, and oh dear god, Gerard's words caught in his throat, because he absolutely could not take this anymore.

"I'm assuming you heard me earlier from that look on your face." Frank mused, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips - like he was secretly kind of proud of himself, and like maybe, just maybe, he wanted the guy with the pretty little ass to know what he sounded like in bed. "Like what you hear? Want to experience it first-hand, huh?"

"But you, you were with someone-" Gerard stuttered out, eyes wide as he still wasn't quite sure as to what his neighbour was implying.

"Oh, no, not my partner or anything. I'm good in bed, and people know that, so maybe there's no harm charging for a service if people are willing to pay." And with that stupid fucking wink, and the knowledge that Frank was a prostitute, Gerard really just died - right then and right there.

"Isn't it usually men that go for prostitutes?" Gerard asked into the silence, wondering how he could possibly cope with even the mere possibility that Frank might be gay, because oh dear god that would really seal his death certificate for him.

"Yeah. I'm bi, but with a preference for guys, so yeah - it doesn't bother me, and if it gives me enough not to be homeless then I really don't mind. I don't want to be homeless at twenty four." Frank sighed, biting down on his bottom lip as some thoughts that he'd rather not consider resurfaced. "What about you? You never told me your name or anything about you. What do you do to get by?"

"I'm Gerard... Gerard Way." The twenty eight year old began, wondering just about how he'd go about conveying the fact that he drew, basically porn for a living. "I'm uhh... twenty eight... I'm an artist, I guess."

"Artist, huh?" Frank scoffed, eyebrows raised high. "How far up your own asshole are you? It's a shame really - I wanted there to be room for me. And so, what's this walking around naked thing? Art? Expressing your emotions via the means of drawing like a fucking blue apple? What do you even draw, Gerard?"

"I... I..." Gerard stuttered, the words never quite coming out, and only then did things get worse as Frank laid his eyes upon the easel in the corner.

"Let's have a look, huh?" Frank rolled his eyes, making his way over to the easel, and stopping dead in his tracks as he came to realise just what was painted upon there. "Fuck...."

"I paint... like... well porn... it sells well... I... just... I-" Gerard didn't get to finish his sentence as Frank was pulling off his shirt, exposing more ink, and throwing the black fabric to Gerard's bedroom floor.

"Paint me." Frank demanded, making his way over to the twenty eight year old. "Paint me and my ink and my ass - pretty, but not as pretty as yours. After all, I've seen you naked already - it's only fair."

"I don't fucking paint for free, Frank." Gerard remarked, finally collecting himself as he stood up, trying his best not to get distracted in the millions of shades of ink set into Frank's chest.

"Yeah - I figured. But, I'll make it worth your while. You know what I do for a living." Frank shut the door behind him, as Gerard stood there, gaze distant and head deep in thought, because this was all he ever wanted and everything he should never say 'yes' to at the same time, and perhaps he just couldn't take it.

"What do you say, Gerard?" Frank asked, a smirking crawling over his lips as he played with the buckle of his belt, almost jumping at the possibility of getting absolutely fucking naked and then fucking a guy as pretty as Gerard fucking Way.

Gerard didn't speak – Gerard couldn't speak. And the gesture of grabbing a paintbrush from the bedside table spoke as his response.

By the time Gerard had set up with his easel facing the bed: a new piece of paper, and the oil paints that he only used for special occasions, but he reckoned Frank's fucking ink was the most special occasion of them all, Frank was completely fucking naked, lying rather fucking sexually on Gerard's bed, and really, he'd never had a live subject before, and at this point, he reckoned that there wasn't a chance in hell that he wasn't going to get hard just while looking at him there.

"Paint me like one of your French girls?" Frank smirked, eyebrows raised as he ran one hand back through his hair in a teasing manner that resulted in both parties bursting into laughter.

"I don't paint girls." Gerard noted, opening his paints and getting his water ready, and really just praying that it wouldn't topple over and fucking wreck what little remained of this shitty ass carpet.

"Oh..." Frank smirked, coming to one of the best realisations he'd had all week - even better when he realised that he could get high off glue, which he reckoned was pretty fucking amazing, and perhaps maybe a little dangerous, but if he hadn't died from snorting cocaine weekly, then he reckoned he could survive a little PVA glue. "So you're totally down for us fucking?"

"Just because I like guys doesn't mean I'm automatically attracted to you." Gerard murmured, lying just a little, because the twenty eight year old was already fucking head over heels for the tattooed asshole, and the tightness in his pants was nothing more than a slap in the face of confirmation.

"Yeah, well, most people seem to be." Frank smirked, sitting up and brushing his hair out of his eyes. "How do you want me to pose?"

"How do you want to pose? It's not going to look naturally if you're forced into something that isn't you."

"Comfortable yet arousing, huh?" Frank asked, grinning like a fucking maniac because Jesus fucking Christ, this was actually the most fun he'd ever had and he had sex with people for a living. "How about this?"

Gerard looked up, his jaw dropping as the sight before him was just entirely too much. "Fuck."

Frank had most definitely mastered 'arousing'. The twenty four year old was on his knees, legs parted a little, one hand on his dick, and the other at his ass - fucking fingering himself, and just to absolutely slay Gerard, he was overdoing his facial expressions in entirely the best way: mouth open wide in an 'o' shape that made the artist want to pin him down against the bed and fucking fill pretty mouth of his up, his head was tilted backwards a little, and his eyelids closed but not quite - gentle, not forced, and totally fucking hot.

"Don't fucking move." Gerard snapped, grabbing his paintbrush and putting it to the canvas in what would be the absolute best drawing of his shitty little career.

"Can I open my eyes? I want to watch you paint." Frank spoke after a moment or two, his words gentle and almost husky in tone, like he'd flicked a switch that turned him into an instant fucking pornstar, and dear god, Gerard wasn't complaining.

"Yeah, it's fine, just close them when I get to that part. This will take a while, so I might just sketch you today, and then finalise the lines after you've gone and I'll paint it tomorrow, or whenever you can come and pose for me again."

"Oh, honey, I don't mind - I've got all night, and there's nothing quite like whoring myself up for such a pretty little whore painter like you." His words were pure explicitness and it was throwing Gerard entirely over the edge. "Oh, take your fucking clothes off, please - I want to see that pretty little ass again."

Let's say, that Gerard did not need telling twice, finding no greater pleasure than being naked for Frank Iero, and for the second time today, only the latter of the two being intentional, but in no way less wonderful - okay, perhaps maybe Frank touching himself on Gerard's bed maybe have swayed the twenty eight year old's preference a little bit, but that was something that just couldn't be helped.

In life, there were things that you should never even consider, and things that you could never possibly say 'no' to, and it seemed that Frank Iero was in fact just at the top of both of those lists, and oh dear god, this was going to ruin Gerard, but if he was going to be ruined, to die, to burn out, he was going to do it with a show, an explosion, make a big deal out of it - Frank would be the gasoline he drenched himself with, before the lighter was taken to his skin.

-

"Wakey, wakey, sunshine." Frank smirked, rolling his eyes as he kicked the figure of the sleeping artist: curled up in his bed sheets and stained with paint. The twenty four year old had glanced upon the masterpiece, and he had to say that it was coming on brilliantly, and it was such a shame that Gerard had fallen to sleep before it could be finished, and that in consequence, Frank would have to wait another night before he could 'pay' Gerard.

To Frank, to fuck someone as pretty as Gerard, it really felt like he should be the one that was paying, but Frank wasn't stupid, and he was more than happy to accept Gerard's masterpiece in return, and then proceed to hang it in the middle of his apartment, right where everybody could see it, because things like that needed to be seen - both Frank's body, and the immaculate strokes of Gerard's paintbrush.

"W-what?" Gerard moaned out, rolling over and opening one eye, then proceeding to jump out of his skin as he came to the realisation that he was in fact not alone in his bedroom, and also naked - this was the third time.

"Come on, sleeping beauty - it's like one pm, and you've got a pretty picture to finish, haven't you?" Frank smirked, and with that fucking look on his face, Gerard soon came to remember who this guy was and what he was doing here, and how the twenty eight year old had chosen to ruin his life this time.

"Uhh... fuck..." Gerard moaned, dragging himself out of bed and sitting up, to find Frank shirtless and leaning against the wall, his eyes fixated upon Gerard's exposed form. "Stop fucking staring at me, asshole."

"Not like I haven't seen it all before, is it?" Frank left Gerard to mumble profanities to himself as he pulled on the first items of clothing that he came across, the twenty four year old making his way into the rest of Gerard's apartment and presenting the grouchy artist with a cup of coffee as he left his bedroom with what Frank would deem to be far too many clothes on.

"You looked better without clothes on." Frank commented, leaving the twenty eight year old to throw him his middle finger before taking the coffee from his hands and curling up in the tattered sofa with his daily dose of caffeine.

"You were much less of an asshole when you were touching yourself for me." Gerard rolled his eyes in retort, burying his face in the coffee mug as Frank pulled out his cellphone, texting some guy he barely knew the name of, and was going to end up fucking sooner or later.

"I've got a 'client' coming in like forty minutes or so." Frank reminded both Gerard and himself, of course, the twenty eight year old snorted at the word 'coming' and the very obvious and yet very true double meaning behind it.

"Oh fuck off." Frank rolled his eyes and taking a seat at the other end of the sofa. "I should probably fuck off soonish anyway - I guess I've already exploited your hospitality enough."

"Honestly, you did nothing but benefit me by getting naked for me, Frank. You're like porn, seriously." Gerard sighed, glancing across at the smirking face of the guy who'd be naked in his bed last night, and how this entire situation seemed utterly ridiculous if he pondered it for even longer than a second.

"I'm good at what I do." Frank bit back a grin, putting his feet upon the coffee table, and was pleasantly surprised when Gerard didn't seem to mind - not that he would have moved his feet if he had, anyway. "And so are you, it seems."

"Shut up." Gerard blushed, resorting to burying his scarlet cheeks behind the porcelain walls of a coffee mug.

"If you can't even take a simple and factual compliment then I honestly can't wait to see you when we fuck and I tell you how fucking pretty you are coming everywhere and screaming my name." Gerard groaned in response and of course, blushed like hell.

"Please don't, I'm going to need to jack off now, asshole." Gerard sighed, shaking his head as he pulled his knees up to his chest in a terrible attempt to subdue the problem in his pants.

"Oh, I would offer to help you out with that, but there's a pretty little picture coming my way before you are, honey." Frank was entirely too impressed with himself and the stupidity of his pun, and really Gerard was too horny to care, and was actually kind of awaiting the twenty four year old's departure so he could jack off like he never had done before, because although Frank may look like porn, just sat there he was nothing in comparison to real deal.

"I think this is the weirdest way I've ever met my neighbours." Gerard announced, eyes focused upon the wall which he had scribbled 'fuck off' onto, just yesterday, and still that felt like years ago, because he never would have even dreamed up the perfect dude sat shirtless beside him, and then the fact that he was painting him touching himself on his bed, and Jesus Christ, the guy was fucking him in 'payment'.

"It's gotta be the best though." Frank added, grinning and getting up, wandering into the bedroom and pulling on his shirt, to find Gerard stood by the door, watching him in a manner that gave him terrible deja vu.

"I think you're right about that." Gerard sighed, watching as Frank ran his fingers through his dark messy hair that had decided to fall over his eyes in an entirely convenient manner. "You're going now then?"

"Yeah, this guy - he pays really fucking well, so yeah, it's in my best interest not to be late."

"Don't you ever wish you didn't have to do this to get by?" Gerard asked, biting down on his bottom lip.

"Gerard, I get paid to fuck people. That's fucking fantastic." Gerard only shrugged in response. "What?"

"Doesn't it make sex seem kind of menial though? Like surely if you come all the time, if you get assfucked everyday, then it's never nearly as fun? Don't you ever wish that you could just have a normal relationship with cuddling and shit?"

"Gerard, you don't fucking know what you're talking about." And with that, and a scowl on his face, Frank Iero stormed out, because secretly the twenty four year old hated it when other people thought they knew himself better than he did, and he absolutely loathed it when it turned out that they did.

-


	3. The Cock Artist Leaves His House And It Has Questionable Consequences

Frank Iero had very quickly come to the conclusion that he hated Gerard Way, and also that he functioned terribly after waking up without the aid of some sort of narcotic substance, but he did of course soon put a fix to that, and as soon as his whole world started to spin, he knew he was ready to earn his money for the day, and then after this guy, he'd go and get some more weed off that guy downstairs to celebrate, because this guy tipped like hell, and maybe, he even tipped well enough that Frank might even care to learn his name, but of course that was still eternally a long shot.

The twenty four year old despised intimacy like the plague, and much preferred intimacy in a physical manner of a cock in his ass and not a word said about it, and perhaps even without the exchange of names if unnecessary.

And he'd even stretch as far to say that he loved his 'job', because sex was no trouble, especially when you were good in bed, and really when Frank thought about, people were paying him to orgasm. Although, of course, this kind of business came with disgusting freaks and weirdos, but they were usually the type which paid more, and for that Frank pushed any thoughts of regret aside, because at the very least, he wasn't homeless at twenty fucking four.

Not that his family would be all that pleased if they could see him now at all, but the one thing he knew that they should be proud of him for was still not being homeless, and that was how proving his father wrong had become his only goal in life.

Frank Iero Snr. had told his son that he'd end up homeless the very day the eighteen year old at the time, got his first tattoo done, and of course, Frank was a fucking stubborn piece of shit and had from then on dedicated his life to having the last laugh - not that he fancied being homeless under any circumstance.

The twenty four year old pulled his shirt off, after he ensured that his front door was locked - he wasn't going to pull a 'Gerard Way', and still seriously, that guy just wouldn't leave his mind: there was something about that odd naivety and shyness of his that had Frank enthralled and intrigued from day one, and really, Gerard would never be Frank's kind of guy, but he was cute... kind of... and Frank Iero wasn't the kind of guy to say 'no' to sex with anyone.

But, then again, Frank didn't really have a kind of guy at all... Frank didn't really date at all - he'd just fucked, and he just survived, and he didn't make friends - not really. He just had clients and dealers and the people he could manipulate into making his life just that little bit easier, so with that, he pulled his jeans off and rid his mind of twenty eight year old, unlocking the door, and waiting on his bed for his client to arrive, because really, there was nothing that cleared his head like fucking some guy that he didn't even know the name of.

And as he laid out upon the bed, he wondered if maybe he should have drugged himself up just a little bit more, because his head had stopped spinning long ago, and was filled with those stupid thoughts of his family and what he was doing with his life and the 'artist' next door, but it was all too late for that as the door opened and his client walked in - only a smile and a nod exchanged between the two of them as dollar bills were placed upon the dresser and he joined Frank on his bed.

"Good day, Iero?" The client asked, leaving Frank with the thought that possibly now would be a perfect time to remember this guy's name, despite the fact that he was in absolutely no mood for small talk and would rather they just got straight to business.

"Not really." The twenty four year old shrugged it off, running his hands under the guy's shirt, pulling it over his head with a shrug of his shoulders as he continued to pray that their awkward small talk wouldn't be furthered and that he'd be satisfied with what he came for - a fuck, and only that.

"What's wrong, huh?" He furrowed his brows, catching Frank's gaze, and stopping them in what was probably the most awkward moment the not quite prostitute had ever found himself in.

"Look, we're here for a fuck and not a therapy session, come on - just get this started." Frank sighed, pushing the guy down onto the bed and focusing his attention to his client's crotch and the way those jeans clung so tight, and just how that created such a problem for the both of them.

"I don't want you to be unhappy though - people say that sex is never as good when you're upset-"

"Oh, but don't you know how fucking good I am?" Frank smirked, raising his eyebrows. "Do you not know what I can do? Are you fucking saying that I'm not good enough, huh? Scared you won't get your money's worth?"

"Oh not at all, Mr Iero, I'm sure you'll make it worth my while - you know that I don't pay this well for just anyone." He grinned, pushing dark brown hair behind his ears as he let the twenty four year old rid him of his jeans, rendering both of them naked upon Frank's bed, and he still didn't even know this guy's name.

"Oh, I will - I promise." And then everything faded away into that sex haze that left Frank's brain all fuzzy and second in control to his nerves, everything heightened with the pleasure of a fuck, and the way that he knew this was the kind of thing Gerard would hate, and he wanted to piss the guy off, and he still wasn't entirely quite sure as to why, but at the very least, Frank had broadened the horizons of his life by ensuring that he did everything just to better both his father and the cock artist, Gerard Way.

Frank laughed at the fact that he actually called himself an artist - sex wasn't art, porn wasn't art, and it was simply nothing but pleasure: an in the moment kind of thing, and not something to be gazed in the bedroom of the highest bidder. Frank hated that idea in its entirety.

And yet, as much as he hated it, it was all Frank had become, and that was a reality he couldn't hide from forever, despite how much he wanted to. It seemed the twenty four year old was particularly good at lying to his parents and the police, but not himself.

-

Gerard had always known that venturing into the outside world was entirely a bad idea, and that social interaction was of course even worse, and his encounter, and well argument with Frank this morning had done nothing but solidified that belief, yet of course, he'd ran out of cigarettes and it wasn't like he was actually going to survive without any, and so, the awkward and cautious exploration of the shitty council estate began, and only in his search for a fucking store where he could buy some fucking cigarettes.

He did however, remember to check that he was in fact wearing clothes, which at least prevented the possibility of him accidentally going outside stark naked; he didn't particularly want his reputation to mirror that of Frank's, not that the fact that Frank regularly had sex with other people bothered him at all. It wasn't like he actually cared.

Caring about Frank Iero? Gerard thought that none other than an utterly preposterous notion, and he was certain in his belief that things would stay that way.

The estate was just about as clean and sanitary as his apartment was, except without the paint and the pictures of cocks, and the dint in the bed where Frank had been, not that Gerard actually gave a damn about the latter of those things, of course.

It seemed however that luck was on his side, even if just this once, because he only had to walk aimlessly for about five minutes until he stumbled upon a little off-license that looked like it would even sell cigarettes to twelve year olds, so he reckoned that this place would do him absolutely fine, even if the sign was pretty much falling off and had the potential to fall, crush his skull and kill him as he walked under it, but the twenty eight year old reckoned that he was prepared to face that kind of risk for cigarettes.

Needless to say, the shop keeper: a bearded, pot bellied man in his late forties, with one pierced ear and an AC/DC shirt, stared at him for a good ten seconds as the 'artist' walked into the shop. Gerard reckoned that next he wanted to go out without getting eyed up by forty year old obese shop owners, he'd consider wearing jeans that weren't practically skin-tight, but it was far too late for that already, and anyway, he most definitely would have caused much more of a scene if he'd gone out naked, so perhaps this wasn't the worst situation he could be in right now.

And in celebration of that, he decided he'd go browse the back of the shop and get himself some fucking beer or maybe even some actual food or something, or really anything that would stop the guy at the counter staring at him like he was some sort of fucking hooker.

As Gerard disappeared, well hid away in the back of the shop, spending too long browsing, or well, stalling, a second customer walked into the shop - a customer much more friendly with the asshole behind the counter, and largely due to the fact that they did in fact share the same asshole-ish qualities.

"How's it going, dude?"

Gerard overheard the second customer's presence in the shop and simply tried his best not to cringe aloud, because dear god, he was not in the mood to deal with more people right now, and really he just wanted to get out of there as fast as he could, but then, things got worse.

"Alright, Iero, business' not exactly booming, but whenever is it?" The shopkeeper concluded his sentence with a cringe worthy, deep, belly laugh, whereas Gerard was pretty much close to punching himself in the face, because who the fuck else was called 'Iero'?

"Your main customer demographic is fucking thirteen year old kids trying to buy booze and smokes." Frank rolled his eyes, continuing in his conversation, and absolutely oblivious to the presence of his favourite cock artist, not that he knew many cock artists, yet it was questionable whether Gerard would be his favourite even if he did.

"Can convince 'em to pay extra for being underage though, so as long as I'm not getting done for it, then it's all fine by me." Frank reckoned that if he knew this guy when he was younger, he would have downright been his hero and not some asshole that looked at his butt whenever he went and bought cigarettes, but really, when you're a prostitute, people looking at your butt was hardly even worthwhile thinking about, and in fact, the only thing that Frank was thinking about was the fact that he wasn't paying to look at his butt, and really, that was narcissism to an extreme, and in Frank's mind, definitely something to shout about after a couple of shots.

And as soon as the two were engaged in conversation, Gerard decided that he'd just have to discreetly go and pay, and just not attract any attention from Frank fucking Iero.

Of course, that plan went terribly, as of the exact moment he made his way back into the front of the shop, Frank recognised him, and chose to comment upon it as well.

"Looks like enough booze for two there, Gerard."

The twenty eight year old pulled his gaze up to meet Frank's devilish smirk, rolling his eyes and turning away as he paid for the booze and a packet of cigarettes, but of course, the twenty four year old was far too much of an asshole to just leave it at that.

"Who's the lucky fellow you'll be drinking away with tonight then?" Frank inquired as Gerard pulled the plastic bag containing his items from the counter, and attempted to walk out, only for the twenty four year old, having already purchased the packet of Marlboro that been in for, to follow him.

"I'm not drinking with anyone, just fucking leave me alone, Frank." Gerard exclaimed, stopping in his tracks as he came to the realisation that no matter how briskly he walked away, the twenty four year old would still be insistent upon following him.

"Well, as I've said, there's enough booze for two, and therefore that means there's a space for me to tag along." Frank smirked, leaving Gerard to stare at him, wondering just how they'd gotten to this, because he was absolutely certain that they'd ended upon the note of hating one another.

"What the fuck do you want? Aren't we supposed to hate each other?" Gerard asked, confused and tired, but the excuse to stare at Frank's fucking perfectly sculpted face was making up for it monumentally.

"What do you think I want, honey? I'm a whore and you said it yourself." Frank grinned; taking far too much pleasure in the scarlet blush that Gerard broke into in response. "Don't even bother apologising, I'm a fucking prostitute, so think about what I want, Gerard."

"You want fucking sex?" The twenty eight year old exclaimed, looking Frank up and down like he'd just told him that he has an Ebola fetish. "All you do all day is have sex, I-"

"Yeah, but you were right, because sex you get paid to do fucking sucks in comparison to sex you have for fun and I have just experienced what I think is the world's shittiest orgasm, and I was hoping you could fix that." And that fucking wink was either going to get Gerard hard, get Gerard’s fist to hit him hard in the face.

"I haven't finished that stupid fucking picture of you." Gerard confessed, sighing as he pushed his hair back. "Why do you even want to do this? I'm terrible in bed."

"Well, I'm fantastic in bed, and that'll even out to assure that we're both at least adequate. Not like you were ever going to fucking dom me anyway." Frank rolled his eyes, smirking a little as he started making his way back to the apartment block, leaving Gerard to follow him this time.

"Oh, we're talking that kind of sex?"

"Yes, idiot, I said fun, remember?" Frank rolled his eyes like this was nothing more than a casual matter, which to him it really just about was.

Gerard sprinted a little to catch up with Frank, however soon catching him and his pace, much to the twenty four year old's annoyance, but he really couldn't be bothered to walk any faster than this. "Seriously, though, why? What happened to you hating me?"

"Two things, honey. Two things." Frank smirked, catching Gerard's gaze. "Free booze and those fucking jeans of yours. So tight on your pretty little butt, you know that? Everybody's staring, honey, and they have reason to, because like that, you're just begging for a cock in your ass, aren't you, Gerard?"

"Here's a new idea..." Gerard stuttered out, blushing to the end of the universe, and back. "How about you don't try to get me hard in jeans as tight as this before we get home?"

"Spoils all the fun, though, doesn't it?" Gerard only rolled his eyes in response, watching as Frank shrugged and lit a cigarette. "Seriously though, after witnessing many assholes today, I came to realise that you're nothing but a saint in comparison, and perhaps you do have a point, but I am in no way the relationship type, just the fun sex, type."

"Yeah, I'm not a human interaction person at all, so I guess we agree on something." Gerard shrugged, his arm starting to ache from carrying the six pack of beer in that shitty plastic bag that the shopkeeper probably made out the intestines of children who died in third world countries. "What does 'fun sex' entail, though?"

"What does fun entail? Don't fucking answer that, it's a fucking rhetorical question, you dumbfuck." Frank paused, inhaling a deep breath of his cigarette as they began the climb up six flights of stairs to Gerard's apartment. "Toys. And I'm just hoping you've watched enough porn to know that that doesn't mean I'm going to shove a fucking furby up your ass."

Gerard broke into laughter at that, as some particularly disturbing mental images graced his mind in manner that he just wouldn't forget. "Oh, I watch a lot of porn, don't worry."

"Well, that is reassuring. Do you have problems when it comes to me domming the absolute hell out of you, and not letting you come until I have, because you have to be good to come, don't you, honey?"

"Do you not remember what I said about trying not to get me hard before we've even got home and are in public, because although you are an asshole-"

"Do you want to come at all, Gerard Way?" Frank asked, stopping the two of them with a smirk.

"Do you want this kind of sex at all, because come on, I've figured it out now - I'm the only fucking gay guy you know that doesn't look at you like you're walking porn." The twenty eight year old met him with a wider smirk as Frank sighed, rolling his eyes and muttering a quick whatever, before hurrying up the last flight of stairs, with Gerard at his heels.

"Also are we planning on getting drunk before or after?" Gerard asked as he handed the bag of alcohol to Frank, pulling his keys out of his jeans pocket, and with great difficulty due to the inconvenient nature of pockets on tight jeans.

"After. If it's good I want to be sober during it, and anyway, the alcohol thing was just a ploy to get you to let me in your flat again." And with that stupid fucking smirk, Gerard swore he could punch him, but of course, he daren't fuck up a face as pretty as Frank's.

"You're an asshole."

"Oh honey, I know."

-


	4. The Art Of Destruction

Gerard was more than used to being naked as just a casual thing, but being naked with purpose seemed like an entirely different thing altogether, which was exactly what put the blush upon his cheeks in front of Frank Iero.

Frank was beautiful naked, and in fact, just plain beautiful, and absolutely comfortable in the whole naked with purpose thing, and really with a job like his, he had to be.

Gerard couldn't really pretend that he liked what Frank did for a living, but he could at least just shut up about and appreciate something good, but he felt far too nervous and even just a little uncomfortable as he sat on the bed, awaiting Frank's command as the twenty four year pulled a few things out of his bag, which Gerard decided that maybe he simply just wouldn't question, at least for his sanity's sake.

"So, princess, how do you feel about getting fucked so hard that you won't even be able to fucking walk for days?" Frank smirked to himself as he brought up such a vulgar question in such a casual manner, but really, with Frank Iero, there was very little else to expect.

"You're awfully ambitious, aren't you?" Gerard decided that an indirect answer was the best way to go, biting down on his bottom lip as he continued to watch as Frank fidgeted around with his back turned to Gerard.

"You think that I won't be able to make you hurt, to make you scream, to make you scream out my name as I slam so hard into you that you can't breathe?" Frank turned around at that, eyebrows raised as a blush flooded the twenty eight year old's cheeks.

"I think... I think... I think that I need you and I need this right now."

"Shut the fuck up and stop being such a whore and maybe I'll consider making you beg for me to fuck that pretty little ass of yours." Frank rolled his eyes, catching Gerard's wide-eyed and begging gaze for just a moment, but pulling on a smirk. "You have the fucking nerve to call me a whore, and fucking look at you, fucking look at you begging and moaning for me, come on, Gerard, fucking beg."

"Oh... oh, please fuck me please, please just fuck me until I'm screaming, please, Frank. Make me scream, make me cry, slap me, hurt me, I don't care, fucking kill me if you have to, but just fucking come inside my pretty little whore ass and I will be eternally yours."

"Sounds like you've fucking planned that." Frank smirked, grabbing a pair of handcuffs and making his way over to the sexually frustrated mess of an 'artist'. "Do you rehearse? Have you fucking planned for the big moment when Frank Iero will finally fuck you?"

"N-No... no, I-" Gerard was lost for words, his eyes fixated upon the cuffs Frank held so fucking excitedly and then the way the twenty four year old seemed to ignore every fucking word he said and just pin him down against the bed like nothing else mattered quite as much as inked skin upon exposed and whore and the artist.

"You're so fucking beautiful when you're scared, you know? So don't fucking say that you're not scared of what I can and what I will do to you, because I can see it in your fucking eyes." Frank whispered as he handcuffed the wide-eyed artist, who admittedly, wasn't at all ready for being naked with purpose, let alone the purpose itself.

"I-I... Frank, I... I don't... I don't really... have sex... I mean, not regularly, I just... it's been a while, and-"

"You scared about what I'm going to do to that pretty little ass of yours. You know I'm going to fucking ruin it, and you know that I'm going to fucking ruin you too." And they both knew that Frank's words were entirely nothing short of a promise.

"Then fucking ruin me." Gerard told him: reckless and thinking without the aid of a single brain cell, and only in the way the twenty four year old looked at him, and the way he looked like this.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do. Get on your fucking knees." And with cuffed hands, the task wasn't exactly easy, but soon enough, Frank was practically pushing him down and spreading his legs apart like he owned Gerard entirely.

"Fuck..." Gerard moaned out, his head spinning and his whole world fucking buzzing as he leaned back against Frank: tip at his entrance, and far too ready for his own good.

"We're not nearly ready for that, yet, artslut, come on, keep your pretty ass in the air for me, and I'll make it mine. I'll make you mine." And it was only Frank's tone of voice that set Gerard on edge in every fucking way possible, and he wasn't sure if he should be begging Frank to stop or for Frank to never stop, and really it was just too much of a mind fuck for him to even consider for more than a minute.

Frank seemed to do a pretty good job of distracting him anyway, but not in quite the way that Gerard had planned, but with his backhand down against Gerard's ass and the visions of red and purple bruising for days. "I want you to fucking bruise for me, and I want you to fucking beg for this to stop because it hurts so bad, and I want you to need me like I'm the only person that can ever fuck you hard enough."

"You are, Frank, you are." Gerard's words came out with difficultly and littered with the gasps and moans that would make Frank smirk.

"Prove it. How many spankings of your pretty little ass can you take, artfuck?" Frank paused at that, leaving Gerard to sit up in order to meet the twenty four year old's gaze, pushing all perplexation at the fact that he'd actually been asked aside.

"I don't know."

"Well, that's no good, is it? Can you take one hundred?" Frank thought it best to start high in the hopes that maybe Gerard would just give in to pressure, because the twenty four year old had to admit that he was cursed with a certain fascination revolving around Gerard Way's ass.

"No, I-"

"Fifty?" Gerard only shook his head, blushing a little as he did so. "Twenty five?"

"I... uhh? Twenty... maybe..."

"Right, then forty is it. Fucking pretty little ass of yours-"

"I said twenty." Gerard’s eyes widened as he looked up at Frank Iero and realised he hadn't a clue as to what he was capable of at all - he was just this attractive guy that wanted to fuck him, and Gerard was far too lovestruck to say 'no'.

"Yeah, I heard you; I'm ambitious, Gerard Way. And you’re as much of a whore as I am, so get back on your knees and stop fucking complaining." Frank smirked a little at just how Gerard obliged entirely without question. "Oh, and fucking count for me, will you, sugar?"

"One."

-

And Gerard was fucking wasted by the time they even neared thirty, moaning and pleading for it to all end - he just wanted fucking and he just wanted Frank, but this was too much and he knew it all too well, but the matter of giving in to Frank Iero was not something he considered happily.

"Frank, I.. can't- I-"

"You want it to end, do you?" Frank smirked, stopping and sit down beside Gerard on the bed, smirking a little as his once pale ass now raw, bruised and inflamed.

"Yeah, I-"

"Then just beg. Tell me how good you'll be and tell me that I was too much for your pretty little whore ass." Frank smirked, because he simply wasn't loosing something like this without a fight.

"I'm sorry, please, Frank, please- I-I'll be good and you were too much and too good for my pretty little whore ass, I-I... please, just... please." Frank only grinned in response, uncuffing the artist and getting up from the bed as the twenty eight year old fell down against the mattress, struggling to breathe just a little.

"Talk to me about art, and talking to me about fucking, and what makes it beautiful." Frank's words were slow and his eyes were wide and almost questioning as he ran his gaze over various paintbrushes and art utensils scattered around Gerard's bedroom.

"It's not beautiful though. Things don't have to be beautiful to matter. Fucking is ugly and fucking is raw and fucking is bittersweet: it's not art, it's passion, and although art and passion are often talked about together, they're far from the same thing." Gerard finally answered into the silence, his words kind of breathy as he pulled the sheets around his exposed body, because somehow, he found himself just a little too uncomfortable.

"That's refreshing from the usual artist 'everything is art' bullshit, but it's still so fucking pretentious that I want to slit my fucking throat." Frank picked up a paintbrush and threw it at the wall, the bristles splaying upon impact and falling onto the floor bristles first, effectively ruining the paintbrush entirely. "No, I will not pay for it."

"Why did you do that?" Gerard asked, not entirely upset by the paintbrush ruined on his floor, but just a little curious, and maybe just too uptight, but whatever, his ass fucking hurt.

"Art." Frank scoffed, and Gerard rolled his eyes at the fact that this asshole had called him pretentious only moments ago.

"And what kind of art is vandalising people's shit, huh?"

"The art of destruction. 'It doesn't have to beautiful to matter', huh?" Frank smirked, kicking the paintbrush a little and grabbing his shirt from the floor. "Are we going to fuck or should I just put this on and leave?"

"So is this just a fuck for you?" Gerard stopped at that, eyebrows raised and trying to pretend that he didn't care about Frank Iero even half as much as he really did.

"No, this is a 'there's no other reason for me to be here', because you're just sat there complaining about what you asked for and bitching about art and broken paintbrushes." Frank snapped, throwing the shirt to the ground. "I like you, Gerard, you know, but I can't stand your fucking personality, so just shut up and let me fuck you for just a moment, will you?"

"That's fucked up, Frank." Gerard pulled the covers away from him, still, exposing himself once again, and this time not feeling quiet as uncomfortable under Frank's gaze.

"So am I, and so are you. There's nothing else for us other than fucked up love and some shitty ass art metaphors." Frank didn't bother with lying to make people feel better and he made sure Gerard knew that.

"I want to just drink beer with you and paint and then you can talk to me about shitty things that people shouldn't care about, but I will care, because I like you." Gerard sighed out, running a hand back through his hair. "I'm just rather nervous about admitting that."

"Yeah, but that's not me. I'm not rom-com bullshit, and neither are you.. not really. I'm fucking and I'm doing an array of drugs and I'm wondering why my life is such a pile of shit, and I'm the artist's pretty ass whore, okay?"

"Then try, fucking try, because I like you and I know you like me, Frank Iero." Gerard sighed out, growing rapidly more pissed off with the fucking asshole that was Frank Iero, and really he was strongly considering throwing a paintbrush in Frank's direction, and seeing how he liked 'the art of destruction' then.

"Face it, Gerard." Frank walked over and sat beside the twenty eight year old once more. "Fucking face it, okay? You like me, but you can't stand how I really am. You feel just the same as I do, because we're fucking polar opposites, come on. Opposites attract, sure, but opposites don't really work out long term or when sanity's at all involved. You're pretentious, you care, you have standards, you're an artist, and you care too much, and I don't care, I'm messy, I'm a fuck, I'm a whore, people know me, and people own me, whereas you're this fucking egotistical recluse and I really want to punch you in the face-"

"Oh, because spanking me wasn't enough, was it?"

"Your ass is my weakness, Gerard Way. My one true weakness." Frank chuckled a little, rolling his eyes at what he'd just said. "You ruin me, and I have to ruin you to balance that out."

"Oh fucking shut up - you're all ego, you are, Iero." Gerard grabbed Frank's hand, and simultaneously, his gaze.

"Mhmm?"

"Yeah, you are. And maybe I do want to fuck, but maybe not yet, maybe not now, maybe I just want to make out with you a bit... a lot..."

"If hickeys are okay then I'm totally fucking down for that."

"Oh god yes."

"I fucking hate art, you know, but me bruising your fucking pale skin is fucking wonderful." Frank sighed out.

"You're covered in tattoos, what the fuck?" Gerard laughed out, leaving Frank to roll his eyes and pin the twenty eight year old down against the bed.

"Tattoos are more of a commitment and a corruption... a destruction kind of thing as opposed to creation. And that's more of my style-"

"Oh, yeah, the art of destruction-"

"Fuck you, Gerard Way, fuck you."

-

Getting Frank Iero to shut up was truly an impressive feat, and Gerard managed it with very little other than his stupidly fucking pale exposed skin, and those collarbones- fuck.

Frank, although disheartened by Gerard's apparent lack of 'ambition' towards his spankings and perhaps even being Frank's bitch in general, found great pleasure in the 'art' of pinning the twenty eight year old down against his bed, the covers long discarded upon the floor, and Frank's lips finding themselves almost permanently attached to the artist's body.

"You're too fucking good at this, y-ah.. you know-w...." Gerard's words felt apart into stuttered, breathy syllables as Frank seemed to have no intentions of stopping, even with the seven red marks that would soon bruise into a dark purple that made Gerard thankfully that he didn't have any friends or family to explain this slutty ass mess to.

Frank snorted a little at that, pulling away for the first time, and only for the sake of snarky remarks with which to fill the otherwise silence, besides the embarrassingly slutty moans escaping Gerard's lips in a terrible frequency.

"It's not like I get fucking paid for shit is it, yeah?" Frank shook his head, before throwing his lips back down against the artist's collarbone and releasing several explicit little whimpers as he did so.

"Do you want me-" Gerard asked, his cheeks growing red as he came to realise that it had been entirely Frank making him feel good here, whereas he'd just sort of laid there like some sort of sexually aroused plank with fucking ridiculous sex hair.

"Gerard, do you not fucking get it? I'm the one fucking in control here, I fucking get off hearing fucking whimper and moan for me and I don't fucking want some fucked up artist bitch touching me in the hopes that it gets me hard, and then I have to act as not to disappoint, and fuck off, because that's the kind of shit I'm paid for and you were fucking right - well fucking done, so shut the fuck up and let me fucking bruise you up, okay? Or do you want me to smack you to ensure that you'll be good?"

"I-I-I..." Gerard's eyes grew wide like headlamps and his words struggled on the way out of his lips, as he found himself entirely too occupied with the way the twenty four year old forced the sounds out more harshly and how he seemed to know exactly how to get Gerard on edge. "I'll be good, but please, smack me anyway."

"You've fucking changed your mind." Frank remarked, snorting a little, but not entirely too fussed, and far more interested in getting the artist to spread his legs for him.

"Yeah, maybe your fucking hickeys helped with that." Gerard grumbled, rolling his eyes and rubbing down his neck and collarbone, only to let out a hiss at the bruised and now sensitive skin; Frank grinned in response, watching eagerly as the twenty eight year old spread his legs and allowed the tattooed man to lift his legs over his shoulders, exposing Gerard's ass, and leaving Frank with nothing short of an entirely devilish smirk.

"How many?"

"Like four." Gerard scoffed, rolling his eyes as Frank tried his best not to look personally offended.

"That's not very ambitious."

"Yeah, but you'll fucking quadruple it or something, you fucking bastard- seriously, what is it with you and ambition?" Gerard stopped at that, eyes widening a little, although Frank found himself in entirely the best way to avoid answering a question that he didn't particularly want to, and that was with his hand against the artist's already bruised ass.

Gerard winced a little more upon impact, and Frank stopped momentarily, gauging his reaction, before continuing, not forcing Gerard to count this time, simply in the hopes that he'd shut up for a few seconds at the very least.

At the fourth smack against the older's ass, Frank pulled away a little, catching Gerard's gaze almost hopefully, only for the artist to laugh it off, pulling the covers back onto the bed. "My ass fucking aches, you know."

"My ass always aches." Frank confessed, with a roll of his eyes, letting Gerard drag him under the covers with him, and only objecting with a slight wince as Gerard insisted upon nuzzling his head into Frank's chest before resting it in the crook of the younger's neck, clinging to him in a manner Frank realised that perhaps he'd just have to put up with.

"You seem so pissed off - it's just fucking cuddling." Gerard sighed out, his breath upon Frank's neck causing the younger to jump a little, kick-starting an exchange of a giggle and a scowl between the pair.

"I'm not a fucking cuddler, sure I get fucked all day long, but I'm not daddy's fucking pet or anything." Frank spat out, his face contorting a little as Gerard caught his gaze for a moment, before letting a smile fall over his lips.

"No, that's me, isn't it?" Gerard giggled a little and Frank really fucking hated the fact that he hated Gerard, because it was just proving the whole world impossible for him to live in.

"I'm not your fucking daddy." Frank gave the artist a little shove, leaving Gerard to roll off him, a little disgruntled.

"You're not my fucking boyfriend either so make your mind up."

"We're not... we're not even friends, this is just-"

"Just a fuck? Just like how you get paid, is it?" Frank paused, caught like a deer in the headlights and Gerard fucking knew it. "You fucking told me otherwise. I know this is different, I know we're different, so what is this? What are we?"

"Sworn enemies." Frank chuckled a little, and Gerard shook his head, getting up.

"Fucking sort your head out, alright Frank? Get out and fucking come back when you know who you are, let alone who we are. You spend your whole life fucking lying to yourself and it doesn't just hurt you, it fucking hurts others, it fucking hurts me too, okay? So get the fuck out and find out who the fuck you are, Iero."

"I'm nobody."

"No, you're not. I tell you that - you're fucking not. You're somebody, at least to me." Gerard found himself caught in yet another trap of sentiment, which he took a few seconds to shake off before snapping back into where they had been before. "Now fuck off, alright."

-


	5. This Is What The 'It's Complicated' Facebook Relationship Status Was Made For

Although he hated to admit it, Frank found leaving Gerard alone far too hard, and really, he found himself missing the artist and his fucking pretentious asshole personality. He wasn't going to admit that he actually cared about Gerard though - that would just be irrational, and although rationality wasn't exactly Frank's strong point, he had some degree of common sense. After all, he lived in this shithole and with the way he made money, he had to have common sense, or he'd be long dead by now.

Gerard was fucking that all up though; Gerard was destroying every little rule Frank had made here and the twenty four year old did not fucking like it - not one bit. Frank needed solitude and only company from the people who could offer him something in return, and he needed to keep sex and his job separate from his life, and he really didn't need anybody to come and tell him that what he was doing was morally wrong.

Frank was practically a spitting image of morally wrong, and he was damn aware of it.

He just couldn't quite figure out what Gerard's deal was though: he didn’t want to fuck, he didn't want money, he didn't want drugs, he didn't want to start fights with Frank, and really Frank knew nothing other than that, and simply refused believe his head every time it piped up about Gerard actually being a good person.

There was no such fucking thing as good people.

It certainly hadn't taken Frank long to figure that out.

None of that mattered at all though anymore because Frank needed his next fix: he needed drugs, he needed pills and he needed them in their hundreds, and really there the free drugs from clients almost made being everyone's whore worthwhile.

Being a whore wasn't what Frank intended to do with his life, of course, when at school they came and asked you what you wanted to be, Frank didn't smile at his teacher and tell her that he wanted to be a whore - actually, he'd said he wanted to be a policeman, when he was six that was, and still that thought made him chuckle every time he thought about it.

He'd be a shitty policeman - he'd be shit at really anything else, the only thing Frank Iero ever seemed to at all excel at in this world was getting fucked in the ass day in and day out, and it was enough, and it didn't faze him, he told himself, as long as the bills got paid and he still had a home and sometimes some pills, nothing fazed him.

But really, Frank had found himself far too acquainted with the art of fabrication and general untruth lately. Again, not that he'd ever admit that to anyone; Frank was far too good at lying and terrible at admitting anything.

It was quite the combination, and really, it left him in nothing but a downwards spiral to his eventual demise, but Frank could certainly put off thinking about that, especially when he knew that inside this cafe was a guy waiting with his pills.

The client who owed him this time was some sort big business corporate fucker - basically the epitome of what Frank hated in this world, and of course to keep this little 'private life' of his well private, he'd sent some guy that he'd blackmailed into keeping this secret, and really, that both terrified and enthralled Frank, because this guy could be anyone, and Frank was far too good at convincing anyone to get into bed with him, for a small fee.

This guy was probably a business asshole too - he had to have money as well. After all, the client who sent him was perhaps Frank's best source income and therefore Frank put up with his fucked up life of fucking some shitty whore for far too much money while his wife and kids at home remained oblivious.

Frank got a lot of older men and not once did he ever think about the wives and kids at home, oblivious to it all, and like that, he was starting to feel sick already, so with that, he distracted himself enough from the certain degree of anxiety surrounding the situation and made his way inside, spotting the guy sat in the booth that his client had told him he'd be and made his way over.

"Iero?" The man sat in the booth whom his client had sent was certainly not what he'd been expecting - long dark hair and blue eyes, and an almost unnerving grin: dressed casually and not at all business like in some old band shirt and jeans that were kind of baggy at the ankles.

"Mhmm." Frank nodded in response, sitting down opposite the guy and meeting his eyes: a little impatient, but more than prepared to wait to see just what else this guy could offer him, because this guy was young, and kind of normal, alright, actually.

"He wasn't wrong about how pretty you are, damn." The man chuckled a little, taking a sip of the coffee he'd ordered before Frank had arrived.

Frank smirked in response, not even bothering to blush anymore - he'd heard the same compliment repeated over a hundred times by now. "You wanna find out if he was lying about how good of a fuck I am either?"

The man smiled, looking away and chuckling to himself either. "He wasn't lying about how much of a whore you are for certain."

"Oh, I'll take anybody's cock, I mean, if the pay is good then it doesn't matter-" And when Frank couldn't even finish his sentence, he knew that this guy was already sold upon him.

"I haven't got money on me right now, well not enough, but I'll give you extra pills?" He looked up, just a little too hopeful, just a little too desperate and Frank nodded in silent agreement.

"Give me what he owes me now and after you can give me what you owe." Frank watched carefully as the man pulled out a little bag marked with Frank's initials and when the waitress wasn't looking, slid it across the table for Frank to pocket. "Right, finish off your coffee then and we can go back to mine."

"I think the coffee is suddenly rather unimportant." The man chuckled a little, pushing it to one side and getting up.

"Oh, and what's your name? You know mine, yet I never got yours." Frank added, following suit and getting up, patting his pocket to check that the pills were still in there as he did so.

"McCracken. Bert McCracken."

-

Gerard had also made his way out of the apartment complex, but unlike Frank, not to pick up drugs and bring home any kind of fuck, but just to clear his head and pretend that he wasn't some broke-ass shitty artist with no dreams or prospects.

Gerard liked pretending, Gerard liked imagining, Gerard liked things of his own creation - he was an artist, after all. And really, it seemed the more times that he called himself that, the more he began to believe this, because Gerard Way was hardly deserving of the title of an 'artist', not really - there was no art in porn or the kind of explicit shit he drew, but it got him by so maybe that was how it had to be.

He'd finished the painting of Frank.

He'd finished it last night after Frank had left - after he had made Frank left, when the guilt had began to set in and he couldn't put a reason why in his head, so maybe this was just the 'sorry', prepared for when he'd need it - Frank was a vein little fucker and a picture of himself like that would have him crawling back within seconds.

And yet, Gerard still hadn't a clue as to why he cared about the guy so much in the first place - sure, he was attractive, but there was no way in hell that looks made up for his absolutely unbearable personality, at least not when sanity was involved.

It seemed sanity had been something that he'd found himself disregarding an awful lot lately, especially when it involved Frank Iero, and if there was ever a good sign for him to get away from Frank because he was going to ruin his life, this was most certainly it.

But Gerard couldn't imagine himself listening to that, well ever. Maybe Gerard was a vain little fucker too.

The picture had turned out alright, well actually, it had turned out fantastic, and he found himself staring at Frank's captured expression of pure explicit orgasm for far too long last night - he needed to get rid of the picture, it was killing him, slowly, sure, but eventuality would soon take hold.

And that's exactly why the twenty eight year old needed some air - not just from the stuffy dope stinking halls of the apartment building, but from his life, and from Frank Iero's involvement in it, and that was what had sent him to the local park, sat on a bench nearest the woodland expanse at the back, cigarette in one hand and not a single thought of Frank Iero to cross his mind, ever.

Gerard wasn't a good liar.

"Gerard?" The artist jumped a little at the mention of his name, and then practically had a heart attack as he began to recognise the figure straying from the path of the park and making his way over to the shitty little bench he'd taken up residence upon.

"It's really you, isn't it?" The guy sighed out, sitting beside the now rather pissed off twenty eight year old.

"No, Mikey, this is Barack fucking Obama." Gerard sighed out, taking a long drag of his cigarette as it burned out, putting it out with the heel of his shoe, before turning to his brother with a great reluctance.

"I haven't seen you in years, Gerard. Years! No one has." Mikey exclaimed, and really Gerard was beginning to regret nothing like ever making his way out of the shithole he called his apartment - at least then the worst person that he could really happen upon was Frank Iero, and the asshole had already seen him butt naked several times, so it hardly mattered at this point, did it?

"I know. I liked it like that." Gerard sighed out, bitter as ever, especially when it came to his familiar and that fucking brother of his. "How's your perfect life then, brother dear?"

"Gerard, shut up." Mikey sighed out, watching as his brother continued to act like the younger of the two, turning and rolling his eyes in an exceedingly tedious and childish manner. "I'm working an internship in the city for my degree. How about you?"

"What are you doing a degree in? Assfuckery? Being a cunt?" Gerard asked all too casually, and Mikey really hated to admit that he'd kind of missed Gerard and that he'd kind of missed this.

"Economics." Gerard made a gagging noise. "And what are you doing with your life?"

"A whole lot of nothing significant actually." Gerard sighed out, turning to his brother, who for once actually wanted a serious answer instead of just an opportunity to laugh at him. "I'm an 'artist', well, that sounds a little big-headed, I'm not important but I make enough money to pay my rent so it's alright."

"You were always great at drawing, you know." Mikey smiled a little to himself, almost like he was a seventy four year old senior citizen reminiscing on his youthful experiences of the past, and not a twenty five year old stuck up asshole, well in Gerard's opinion, anyway.

"Yeah, you were always good at being up people's ass, you know? How's that internship going for you? How much cock have you sucked in the past week?"

"You're so fucking bitter, you know that?" Mikey sighed out, finding that it was probably for the best if he didn't answer Gerard's string of vulgar questions. "I have a girlfriend now - we've been together for a year or so now - her name's Alicia. You could come and meet her sometime if we're in the same city, you know? You've still got my number - it's the same."

"I'd rather not."

Mikey chose to ignore Gerard's spiteful comment and continue regardless. "What about you? Have you got a girlfriend?"

"I don't like girls, Mikey. You know that at the very least, and no- I don't fucking care what dad said - he's an asshole." Gerard sighed out, turning away from his brother and just waiting for him to leave.

"Boyfriend?" Mikey sighed out after a few seconds.

And at that, a small smile fell upon Gerard's lips as he thought of the one person he shouldn't. "Kind of."

"Gerard." Mikey chuckled a little, leaning back against the bench and watching as his older brother began to blush entirely more than necessary. "There's no 'kind of' when it comes to relationships. Tell me what's going on."

"No, Mikey, this is what the 'It's Complicated' relationship status on facebook was made for - I fucking promise." Gerard rolled his eyes, taking another extended, nicotine filled drag as he tried not to think too hard about this, because really, Frank was fucking him over as it was, and really not in the way that he should have been.

"Then talk to me about it." Mikey sighed out, soon losing his patience with his brother, but continuing to try just out of that empathy that Gerard entirely seemed to lack in general. "Just fucking try, will you, Gerard? Because I am."

Gerard only scoffed in response, rolling his eyes. "You wouldn't understand. You're all asskissing and perfect 'American dream' lifestyle with the perfect pretty girlfriend and the corporate job, ready to settle into a middleclass average life with two kids and nothing more to do than that. My life's the fucking opposite of yours."

"Try me, Gerard. Just try. That's all I'm asking and will ever ask." Mikey's question hung in the air for entirely far too long as Gerard even found himself considering it, and of course cursing himself for it immediately after.

"The answer's fucking 'no', Mikey - just fuck off back to your picture perfect life, okay? Keep on pretending, and I'll keep on being real and fucking bitter, and fucking happy with that, okay? See you, brother dearest, well, actually, I hope that I don't."

-

As Gerard finally made his way up the far too many flights of stairs to reach his apartment, he couldn't help but turn a ghostly shade of pale as he came into earshot of the all too family sex noises from next door, from Frank.

And he should have just ignored them, and he should have just been satisfied with slamming his door extra loud or turning his music on full blast or something, but he knew already that he fucking wasn't, and that it was entirely Frank Iero's fault.

Gerard almost felt personally offended by the fact that the fucking prostitute next door was having sex, and really, when he put it into perspective, the reality was nothing but laughable, but the twenty eight year old's head was clouded with Frank's fucking slutty moaning from next door and therefore rendered entirely incapable of thinking straight.

And he almost found himself thinking and acting like Frank was his slut, his personality property, maybe even his boyfriend, and not just some guy that he didn't want to go all the way with yesterday, and Gerard's head fucking hurt, because Frank was a whore and in no way his fucking boyfriend - the moans from next door did a pretty fucking good job of establishing that.

But then Gerard just got the stupid fucking idea in his head of somehow making Frank Iero jealous, and before he could even think (and recent events had made it rather apparent that the twenty eight year was not particularly good at doing so) he found himself booting up his laptop and sitting on the floor in the middle of the lounge area - closest to Frank's flat and where he would be the loudest.

Gerard hated to admit that he had his favourite porn videos on his fucking bookmarks bar, but he totally did, and maybe in times such as these, it was more so useful than it was ridiculous, and then, before he could even gather whatever regrets or dignity that could possibly still be intact, the twenty eight year old was pulling his shirt off, then his jeans, and finally his boxers, holding his cock in his hand as the video began to start - skipping the cheesy, terribly acted introduction and starting the video at the moment that taller of the two guys got his cock out.

Gerard then began to smirk as the moans increased in volume next door, only turning his laptop up onto full volume and watching with an eager gaze as the aforementioned taller guy shoved his cock down the other guy's throat, effectively gagging him and shutting him up.

And as Gerard stroked down himself, he pretended that he totally wasn't focusing on the look in the shorter guy's hazel brown eyes, and the way that the taller guy pulled on his short, dark hair, and the way that his sweat made his inked skin almost glisten.

And really Gerard found himself far too focused on not paying attention to the shorter guy, and barely even noticed how hard he was getting, and how loud he was being, and how the noises from next door had turned to silence - he didn’t even stop to wonder if it was because of him, and really, he was so pissed that he didn't even notice, because he would have fucking liked to have basked in the glory of that moment of thinking he'd beaten Frank fucking Iero.

But as he grew close to orgasm, his breath growing sporadic and heavy as he too began to sweat and his moans slurred into nothing as the video continued to play in the background, gradually more unnoticed as Gerard closed his eyes and began only to listen to the sounds of the shorter guy being pinned up against the wall and fucked, his imagination running out of the bounds of sanity by the darkness and false privacy that his closed eyes brought him.

He only opened them again as he let go, pulling back from his laptop and coming all over his fucking stomach like the world's biggest fucking slut.

Yet, only when he'd came, did he look up and notice that he wasn't quite as alone as he would have liked to be.

And really, he wanted to punch that fucking grin right off Frank Iero's fucking face.

-


	6. I Gave You Two Orgasms And Now You Want A Cigarette?

Frank only continued to grin into the almost empty silence; Gerard's heart beating all to fast entirely, and he almost found himself froze where he sat - cock in hand and his own come over his chest, and it was beyond clear by now that Frank had absolutely no intentions of ever looking away.

Frank only seemed to stare more: his eyes growing wider and the silence stretched longer, and Gerard's face found that the scarlet red blush was considering taking a rather permanent residence upon his cheeks, and dear god - sure, he'd wanted Frank to know what he was doing and he wanted some sort of reaction from the twenty four year old, but nothing anywhere near as confrontational. Gerard just couldn't do confrontational - not at all.

"You ever going to clean that up?" Frank was the first to break the silence; his eyes almost burning holes into Gerard's far too exposed body. Although, the twenty eight year old didn't find himself to be entirely that bothered this time - he'd been naked in front of Frank before... fuck, Frank had spanked him before, and here he was, jacking off to a porn star that looked far too much like him and being far too loud just to get his attention and make him 'jealous', only for when the twenty four year old actually gave Gerard some attention, even if in the form of prolonged staring, to feel nothing but fucking embarrassed.

"What?" His cheeks grew continually more vibrant as he found himself able to move and talk again, almost as if his whole world had been put on pause as he came to realise that Frank had noticed him, and that he'd noticed him far more than he'd ever wanted him to.

"Your come." Frank snapped, rolling his eyes and making his way into the apartment, shutting the door behind him like he owned the place, and Gerard thought it best just not to question it, making his way across to the bathroom - still fucking naked, and Frank was still fucking staring, and making absolutely no secret about it, of course.

As Gerard closed the bathroom door behind him, Frank smirked to himself, making his way over to the laptop, now abandoned upon the floor, which Gerard had been presumably watching porn on. And maybe Frank was just far too eager to see what he liked, and to see what got him off like that.

And really, Frank was not expecting 'Tattooed Guy Gets Choked To Shut Him Up', and from his experience, porn didn't tend to have names that were anything other than straight forward. And at that, Frank couldn't help but laugh, and perhaps even smirk a little, running a hand through his hair and letting his ego soak this all in, before sitting down beside the laptop and taking the liberty of examining Gerard's porn history in greater detail.

Needless to say, despite his ego, Frank really was not expected this video to be in Gerard's favourites, along with many others featuring the same tattooed guy, or guys like him, and Frank really couldn't help but laugh at the twenty eight year old's apparent fetish. Frank had to say that he was disappointed at the lack of kinky shit - boring, in his opinion, and this was mediocre at best, and dull for the most part. He had high hopes for Gerard, and an awful lot of them seemed to be far out of Gerard's comfort zone.

Whatever, Frank'd had sex barely ten minutes ago, and he'd even got a fuck ton of pretty sweet pills out of it, and yet, he wanted more - he wanted sex without the money, he wanted sex for the sake of it, and he wanted Gerard to know that he knew all about how he got off, and that was exactly what had Frank sitting calmly with the laptop on his lap when Gerard returned - flustered, and with far too many clothes on, well in Frank's opinion anyway.

"Frank! That's my laptop-" Gerard exclaimed, making his way across the room, his tone making it evident that it was only at the end of his sentence that he came to remember just what he'd left open on that laptop.

"Your taste in porn is really rather bland, you know." Frank snorted, biting back a smirk as he brought his gaze up to meet Gerard's, who was really just half way between punching him and fucking him right now, and really, Frank wouldn't have minded if he'd gone for both.

"And what do you suggest?" Gerard sighed out, deciding it best if he just have up on any hopes of retaining his dignity at this point, sitting down beside Frank, who had moved with the laptop to the sofa.

"Tattooed guy spanks and fucks the faggot artist." Frank smirked, all too nonchalant, waiting a few minutes before he met Gerard's gaze, and really, the twenty eight year had just been praying that 'tattooed guy' was something that Frank wouldn't pick up on. "I'm flattered, honestly."

"Oh for fuck's sake..." Gerard found himself leaning into Frank's shoulder as the twenty four year old continued to examine his porn history. "You really like spanking though, don't you?"

"I like bruises. I like making marks. I like marking my territory." He bit his lip, closing the laptop and putting it down on the floor, turning his attention to the twenty eight year old sat beside him.

"Whoever said I was yours?" Gerard asked, eyebrows raised, examining Frank's face all too carefully for any hope of a reaction.

"I did." Frank grinned, running one hand through Gerard's long, black hair. "Also you have such a nice fucking ass, and there are just so many things that I can't say no to in the world, and your ass is right at the top of the list. Above free drugs and puppies, even."

"Free drugs and puppies." Gerard snorted, as really the word 'puppies' was the last thing he expected to come from Frank's mouth today.

"What? I like dogs." Frank shrugged, making a good job of distracting Gerard by trailing tattooed fingers down his neck, tugging at the collar of his shirt a little. "You know, you shouldn't have bothered to put any clothes on."

"Is that so?" Gerard's eyes widened - amused, but just a little.

"I want to put a fucking vibrator in that ass of yours and watch you squirm. I want to make you shut up, and every time you make a noise I'll turn that vibrator up until you end up screaming out my name, and fucking begging, and then, then, I'll get you on your knees and cuff your wrists together and force my cock down your throat and fucking come all over that pretty little face of yours, and then, maybe, if you've been good, I'll touch you and let you come."

And at that, Gerard was nothing but widened eyed, and far more aroused than he wanted to be, but really, he didn't trust himself around Frank Iero. "You just had sex." He reminded him, and for what reason he'd never know.

"But you're different, Gerard. You're fucking pretty and I want to look at that ass of yours again, and I fucking know you get off to just the sight of me, so shut up, okay?" Frank got up, pulling his shirt over his head, discarding it on Gerard's apartment floor and exposed his inked chest, perhaps just to make a point.

"I don't even have a vibrator." Gerard admitted, getting up and struggling to meet Frank's gaze - to say that the twenty four year old made him nervous, especially like this, would be nothing more than an understatement.

Frank's eyes widened at that. "How the fuck do you even live? I have like six. When's your birthday? I'm getting you one."

"April 9th." Gerard responded without thinking, watching as Frank smirked.

"Does that mean that you've never used one?" Frank exclaimed, his eyes widening with a disconcerting kind of excitement, and Gerard could only force a scarlet-cheeked nod in response. "Oh fuck, I'm going to get one of mine - get on the bed, on your hands and knees, fucking naked, and with that pretty little ass of yours in the air."

And Gerard could only watch with a pounding heartbeat as Frank made his way out the flat and over to his, leaving him with no other option than to follow instructions, just like the little slut Frank wanted him to be. Maybe he could do that, and maybe he could be that, for Frank, he definitely could.

-

"Fuck, you're so good, you know?" Frank broke the silence as he closed the bedroom door behind him; eyes fixated upon the way Gerard looked like that, and the vibrator in his hand. He'd spent a while, perhaps even far too long picking the right one - he went for a relatively small one, but since Frank was Frank, relatively small was just above average.

"I-I-I..." Gerard choked out, his words heavy as his breaths almost forced as he craned his neck to peer at the grin upon Frank's face and the vibrator in his hand.

In silence, Frank set it down at the foot of the bed, before proceeding to rid himself of his jeans, and then his boxers, and Gerard found himself staring, like an absolute fucking whore, but he had his legs spread for a fucking vibrator that belonged to some guy he barely knew, so to say he was a whore right now would perhaps be the least he could say.

"You've got lube at the very least?" Frank asked, gaze turning stern, because with getting fucked for a living, Gerard's apparent lack of sexual possessions was really starting to bug him.

"Yeah, it's uhh... in the drawer." He gestured vaguely, watching as Frank grinned and retrieved the little bottle, placing it beside the vibrator and at first, just running his finger tips over Gerard’s asscheeks, smirking at the patches that still remained a darker colour from last time. 

"It still shows - just a little, but it does. God, I fucking love marking you up, you know." Gerard nodded in response, finding it rather hard to breathe in general. "Are you ready? I'll use a decent amount of lube and I'll make sure that it doesn't hurt too much getting it in, because quite literally, that can often be a pain in the ass."

"Oh, very funny." Gerard rolled his eyes.

"Shut up, I could fuck you so hard right now, I could fucking use you and leave you crying, so be nice to me, Way, because I'm not afraid to fuck you over as well as fuck you, you know?"

"Yes- I'm sorry..." Gerard exhaled, his heartbeat quickening as he listened to the click of the cap on the bottle of lube and then how Frank applied it to the vibrator and then the way Frank made him jump by spreading his legs further. "F-fuck... I-I-I... it's okay, I just got startled..."

Frank chuckled a little, running a lubed finger down his ass and continuing to smirk as he shivered against the touch. "That feels good already, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"Fuck, we've barely even got started." Frank exclaimed, pushing the finger into Gerard, just stretching a little, and enjoying the little breathy noises that the twenty eight year old was making just far too much. "You fucking love that, don't you?"

"Y-yes." Gerard gasped as Frank suddenly pushed in a second finger.

"You ready to take it now?" Frank asked, gripping Gerard by the hip with his other hand.

"Yes." Gerard was all too sure of himself, and dear fucking god, Frank was not going to stop now, grabbing the vibrator and pulling his fingers out, almost rolling his eyes at how Gerard whined at the lack of touch.

"You're doing so fucking good. You're mine, you really are, you fucking act like that's all you were ever born to be." And it was the distraction of Frank's words that had Gerard jumping as Frank pushed the tip. "Calm down, come on - you're good." Frank sighed out, continuing to push it in, watching as Gerard squirmed a little already, and from the amount he was fussing, the twenty four year old found himself relieved that it wasn't that big, and it took under a minute to get him to take the full thing.

"Fucking perfect." Frank exhaled, turning it on the lowest setting and grinning as Gerard let out a full on porn esque moan at that. "You know, you should have listened to what I'd said earlier, because I told you that every time you made a noise I'd turn that thing up."

-

Needless to say, it wasn't long before Gerard Way was on his knees, wrists cuffed together as promised, and a mouth open and begging for nothing other than Frank Iero's cock.

"Your mouth feels fucking empty like that, doesn't it? You need it, and I know you do, this is how I live, this is what I do to get by. And maybe I should shut you up for being such a loud whore whilst I was trying to get paid, huh?" Frank smirked, grabbing Gerard by the shoulders and making his erection no secret whatsoever.

"It's funny how you're the prostitute and yet you're talking to me like that." Gerard only grinned up at Frank, and the twenty four year old seriously considered slapping him in the face, but thought better of it at the last minute.

"It's funny how stupid you think I am." Frank added, pushing Gerard's head down and onto his cock. "Fucking put that mouth of yours to some good use, because you're being nothing but a fucking asshole here."

Gerard didn't make any effort to respond, only taking Frank deeper into his mouth and by the gasping little moans he extracted from Frank's lips, he couldn't help smirk at the fact that the twenty four year hadn't been expecting this at all.

Gerard could suck cock too, and somehow, he was determined to prove that, just for Frank though, because maybe he did care about the 'whore next door' just a little too much, or at least his taste in porn would definitely say so.

"The quicker I come, the quicker you get to as well. You know that, don't you, Gee?" Frank found himself grinning a little at the nickname and even more so as Gerard seemed to take Frank's words into account, taking practically all of Frank down his throat. "Gee makes you sound like a slut, you know? Gerard sounds like some pretentious motherfucker, but Gee sounds like the best cockslut in the world, and I know who you really are."

In response, again Gerard's pace only quickened as he began to bob his head up and down Frank's cock like he was made for nothing else, and really, with his mouth full like that, there wasn't a chance that he could even fathom arguing against it.

"Come on, fucking faster, I'm close, fuck, Ge- fuck..." Frank moved his hands into Gerard's hair, pulling the long black locks like he didn't care how much he ripped out, and even Gerard didn't care if he was bald tomorrow, just as long as Frank came, and god, he didn't know how he'd gotten here, and maybe he shouldn't have been quite so comfortable with being just this much of a slut, but he had to admit that there was something oddly comforting about having a cock down your throat.

And then before Gerard knew what was happening at all, Frank was pulling out and grabbing his cock, coming, with one touch, all over Gerard's face, as promised. And Gerard would be a liar if he didn't open his mouth on purpose.

"You said you'd touch me now, make me come." Gerard's tone suddenly became more demanding, despite his come stained face, which really, Frank could only laugh at.

"I said if you were good enough." Frank smirked, wiping some of his come off Gerard's face with his index finger and popping it into Gerard's mouth. "Fucking suck it off." Gerard blushed a little before obliging. "Good, now you've been good."

"So keep your promise, Iero." Gerard snapped out, pulling Frank's finger out his mouth and grabbing his hand and pressing it against his own cock: hard as fuck, of course. "Come on, this is what you're good at, after all."

And with that, Frank was getting Gerard off within seconds, but even as Gerard's gasped and moan and came all over Frank's now tightened fist, the twenty four year old showed no intentions of stopping, continuing as Gerard continued to moan and plead, his mind unable to form a coherent sentence together at all.

"P- Fr- Frank, I-I... I-I... already- c-c-ca-ame..." Gerard fell forward against Frank, panting heavily against his chest, Frank only reached around with his other hand, slapping Gerard on the ass, and as he spread his cheeks in shock, Frank took upon the opportunity of pushing one finger in. "Fr-fr-ank!"

"You're going to come again - I can feel it, you're hard already-" And as Frank pushed in a second finger, fucking Gerard on his fingers as he continued to jerk him off, the twenty eight year old was coming all over again.

Frank stopped at that, smirking and letting the artist fall back against his bed, and really, Gerard looked like he was about to pass out.

"I swear that's not even fucking possible." Gerard groaned out, closing his eyes as Frank lit himself a cigarette, sat at the end of the bed.

"What can I say? This is what I'm good at, after all." Frank mimicked Gerard's words, silently informing the twenty eight year old that 'round two' was simply what happened if anyone ever dared doubt how good Frank Iero was in bed, or even just get 'clever' about it. The twenty four year old was rather proud of what he did, to say the least.

"Oh fuck off..." Gerard sighed out, finally forcing his eyes open and smiling at the cigarette hanging between Frank's lips, and the knowledge that the scent of nicotine had not mistaken him. "Is now a bad time to bum a smoke?"

"I already gave you two orgasms and now you want a cigarette - who do you think you are, Gerard Way?" Frank rolled his eyes, breaking into a grin shortly after and handing the twenty eight year old a smoke nonetheless; the twenty four year old knew the tortures of nicotine addiction all too well.

"I think that I'm the best fuck you've ever had." Gerard only smirked, lighting his cigarette and Frank gave him a certain kind of look that was so fucking close to meaning 'well, you're not wrong'.

-


	7. Pancakes. Fuck It, Pancakes Are Like The Pivotal Point Of This Chapter

Frank's head was spinning when he woke up, and the fact that he woke up next to Gerard fucking Way didn't help things in the slightest.

Frank did fucking and well, everything but waking up next to people: it was so utterly, sickly domestic and he fucking hated it. 

However, hating Gerard himself seemed to present itself as an entirely different matter, and really, there wasn't quite anything as painfully confusing as that; the twenty four year old just wanted a fuck and someone to make squirm and scream out his name and not someone to wake up cuddled up next to.

Frank spent far too much time in other people's beds, but not a second of that time was spent sleeping.

It did however, take the twenty four year old just a few minutes of sanity crushing self-reflection to actually untangle himself from the arms of the sleeping artist - thankfully, Gerard didn't seem to stir at all, and that was probably just about the only thing that had gone right since he'd met the asshole.

And perhaps Frank would just be absolutely fine with a secret and some coffee or maybe even whatever ever pharmaceuticals Gerard had in his cupboards, or perhaps not, but he'd do whatever he could in aid of stopping the sinking feeling in his stomach as his eyes drew back to that stupid little smile on Gerard's face.

Frank just hated to think that Gerard was thinking about him: no one should think about him and smile like that - it just wasn't natural, and yet the only thing that felt right had Frank on the edge of some sort of mental breakdown in the apartment of the guy he'd fucked last night.

Perhaps it was just the matter of fucking people and not getting fucked himself: Frank was getting arrogant, and he was getting ideas about people falling in love with him when in reality, they felt nothing, and perhaps that was nothing more than something being choked and slammed against the bed by a rough pair of unfamiliar hands could fix.

He wondered if he could get fucked and get back before Gerard even woke up - sure, it was a long shot, but sure, Frank reckoned he could just about doing anything, and with a smirk upon his lips, the twenty four year old lit himself a cigarette, leaning against the kitchen wall and smoking with a certain air of pretentiousness that Gerard's apartment just seemed to radiate.

And with seconds, he was pulling out his cellphone and texting someone he knew all too well: someone who'd come whatever the circumstances, someone who would be here within minutes and someone who wouldn't care about keeping quite to unsure that the guy that he'd slept with last night didn't wake up.

For some godforsaken reason, Frank didn't want Gerard to know about this, and it wasn't as if Gerard had painted him as the fucking virgin Mary or something: he knew what he did for a living, and he knew that some casual, but not quite as casual as he'd wanted it to be, sex last night would never change that.

Gerard wasn't Frank's boyfriend - Frank didn't do boyfriends, and Frank didn't do waking up with someone's arm around him, and perhaps maybe it just made sense that he'd snap this situation in two with the guy on his way over to Frank's flat next door.

He felt guilty because Gerard cared and Gerard didn't do three different people a day and call it business. Gerard didn't deserve to get his head up caught up in this shit, and he most certainly didn't deserve to care about someone who was just going fuck him over completely.

The only positive that Frank could see in this situation at all was the fact that he was going to earn like thirty dollars in the next fifteen minutes and for something that was to entirely his own benefit: god, he fucking loved his 'job', and he'd never give it up, even if it destroyed him completely, and really, it most certainly looked like it was on the way to doing so.

He'd have to make it up to Gerard when he'd finished, because fuck, this guilt was destroying him, and really, he didn't even know why it was there in the first place: he didn't care about Gerard and he couldn't care about Gerard, it was just fucked up, and it was early and his head was spinning because Gerard's flat smelled too much like paint fumes and Gerard's bed smelled far too much like Frank right now.

And all it took for him to clear his head was the text received from the guy now outside his flat, as he pulled on a smile and put out his cigarette against Gerard's floor with his foot and closed the door behind him as quietly as possible.

Then, before, the twenty four year old knew anything, he was unlocking his flat door with a deep voice whispering into his ear, and money was placed on the table as he was slammed up against the wall without a moment's warning.

And from then on it was all hand-over-mouth hushed panting and moaning as eye contact became awkward and it began to hurt in such a poorly thought out position, but nonetheless, the guy was coming and Frank was coming as he thought of the guy in front of him and not the one in bed next door.

And as Frank continued to lie to himself, jeans were pulled up and shirts thrown back on as nods were exchanged with a gesture to the thirty dollars on the side and Frank found himself forcing a smile as the guy made his way out and far away from here, but within seconds, he was falling back against his apartment wall as he tried not to think about how this whole escapade had done nothing but fucked him up further.

And for the first time ever, thirty dollars meant nothing, and the guy next door meant everything.

-

Surprise was really the only emotion that Gerard Way could muster as when he woke in the morning, he saw that Frank was, in fact, still here, and had made his way into the kitchen, and even appeared to actually be cooking, like fuck, Gerard reckoned he hadn't actually had a cooked meal, even if it was just breakfast, in a good few years now.

"You're still here, and you're cooking, what the hell, Iero?" Gerard groaned, pushing his hair back behind his ears as he walked out into the main area of the apartment with only a pair of sweatpants on that he'd found somewhere on the floor.

"And I see that your 'thank you' isn't verbal, but in the fact that you've neglected to put a shirt on, huh?" Frank smirked, looking up and leaving Gerard to see that he'd made pancakes and in their dozens, Jesus fucking Christ.

"It's my house - I can walk around naked if I want to." Gerard shrugged Frank's flirting off, because it was really too fucking early to fuck himself over with Frank's fucking 'games': he needed a coffee and a cigarette first, and even then at the very least.

"Oh, yeah, I know - I've seen." Frank chuckled, remembering the very first instance in which he'd met he artist, and just luckily, it was deemed far too early for Gerard's brain to even consider the process of blushing. "Do you want me to make you some coffee?"

"Fuck yeah." Gerard exclaimed, eyes widening at the thought of coffee, and right then, he'd even be prepared to suck Frank Iero's dick just for his daily dose of caffeine, and it really was for the greater good that Gerard hadn't quite been naive enough to voice such an exclamation, otherwise, there wouldn't have been a doubt about Frank forcing him into such an offer.

"Mmm... alright then, go sit down and don't you dare put a shirt on, yeah, sugar?" Frank grinned to himself as he turned back to the kettle and really Gerard couldn't quite think for the life of him as to why Frank Iero could possibly just be this nice to him, or to anyone really, and especially with the lack of any foreseeable motive, but it was really just far too early to question something like that and Gerard resorted to just doing as he was told and settling all worries with lighting a cigarette as he lay sprawled out across his sofa.

"You know I saw that you finished that piece of me." Frank broke the silence as Gerard began to smoke, and as he did so, the artist almost found himself choking on his cigarette smoke. "It's so fucking good, you know. Please don't sell it - I want to look at how fucking hot you made me, because fucking god, Gerard, you made me look hotter than I am in real life, and I quite honestly did not think that such a thing was possible."

"I didn't draw you any 'hotter', Frank, that's just how you sure." And really, that was probably just about the most pretentious manner in which to flirt known to mankind.

"If you say so, asshole." Frank shrugged, pouring the hot water into two mugs of coffee and taking them over to the table by the sofa in the corner of the room where Gerard lay. "I wish I could show you just how fucking hot you are." He muttered, his eyes fixated upon the artist, and he didn't entirely intend Gerard to hear that remark, but of course, as God would have it, Gerard heard every single word.

"You make me feel hot, you know, Frank, god you make me feel so good..." Gerard moaned out, sitting up and holding his cigarette loosely in his left hand and pulling the cup of coffee to his lips with the other. "You also make fucking good coffee."

"You're welcome." Frank grinned, turning around to get the pancakes from the kitchen and definitely not to just ensure that Gerard didn't see him blush, because if he even just once let this asshole facade down around Gerard, he was just absolutely fucked.

"So, have you got any work today?" Gerard asked, the vague manner in which he approached the subject making it almost seem like he was just talking about normal business like Frank was a fucking plumber or something and not a prostitute and then for a few seconds even Frank could believe that everything was just normal and that he didn't have to pretend that he cared more than he was 'supposed' to about Gerard Way.

As Frank sat down beside Gerard, placing the fucking stack of pancakes on the table before them, he shrugged in response, bringing his own coffee cup to his lips and drowning every stupid fucking thought away in the bitter taste.

"Because if you're free today, then maybe I'd actually like to spend some time with you - other than just sex, I mean, well, we could have sex, I just... I just had other ideas..." Gerard sighed out, blushing and eating his first pancake. "Fuck, these are good pancakes."

"Tell me what you want to do then, come on, and maybe I'll consider it." Gerard blushed a little at that, and it really did not help as Frank decided to practically lean all over Gerard, lighting himself a cigarette as he did so. "Because, the thing is, you're not paying me to waste my time with you, so it really better be worth my while for me to even consider it, you know that, right? You know that I'm not your fucking boyfriend, don't you? We just fucked and it was good, and that's that."

"You care about me way much more than you let on." Gerard spoke with entirely too much confidence, but the thing was, he most certainly wasn't wrong. "You wouldn't just fuck anyone, you're Frank fucking Iero, well at least, not without some sort of money involved at the very least."

"You know what, Gerard?" Frank sighed out, changing the subject in the worst way known to man, but really, at this point he was nothing other than fucked, as lying to people he cared about was perhaps his one difficulty. "I'll let you keep that vibrator as long as you fucking film yourself using it and you send me the video. Because, god, there's nothing hotter than the thought of you fucking yourself, you know that, don't you?"

"Frank, we're fucking eating-" Gerard protested, albeit a little taken a back, because there was absolutely nothing that would ever get him used to Frank's spontaneous outbursts relating to his cock, and sometimes just his ass.

"Oh, don't worry, honey, I practically spend my life talking with my mouth full." Frank smirked, letting his head fall back into Gerard's lap, and really, the twenty eight year old was long past the point of protesting here and simply resorted to playing with Frank's hair just enough to irritate him.

"My brother wants me to meet his girlfriend." Gerard didn't quite know where such a personal insight into his life had come from, but Frank did seem to mind, and just like that, the twenty eight year old found himself pouring his problems onto the asshole who'd placed his head far too close to his crotch indeed. "My brother's the fucking perfect child, like he's working in some shitty ass corporate big city office building and I bet his girlfriend’s the secretary or something, and I just... I'm some fucking faggot artist, we practically live worlds away, and after years apart, now he suddenly wants to be involved in my life again."

"So, do you want to see him or not?" Frank asked, looking up at the older man. "The answer here is really fucking straightforward, Gerard - you either want to see him or you don't."

"You don't have siblings, do you?" Gerard sighed out, already knowing the answer, because with brothers things were just fucked up and complicated, yet still just different and unconditional. "He's still my brother, I just..."

"What?" Frank asked as Gerard's words faded out into silence, his eyes settling off on a point in the distance.

"My family always gave me so much shit for my sexuality and even now I don't think that they ever really accepted who I am..." Gerard sighed out, finally pulling his gaze back to Frank and the silence such a serious topic had brought between them. "I met him at the park the other day and he asked me if I had a girlfriend. That fucking hurts, you know?"

Frank nodded, sighing aloud as he did so. "If my parents knew what I did for a living they'd disown me right on the spot, I mean like fuck, perhaps it wouldn't even be the prostitution that would be the main problem, but just the fact that I'm sleeping with guys... it's messed up, it really is."

"I can't just fucking go and see my brother if he still lives to live in this fucked up fantasy world where he thinks I'm just some normal straight guy with a normal nine to five job who doesn't really upon medication to get by and isn't some unrespectable fucking porn artist who likes to get fucked in the ass by the fucking whore next door who's just too fucking attractive for anyone's sanity, and he just doesn't make sense, because you know, one minute, I feel like I can trust him whole heartedly, and the next, he's just looking at me like I'm nothing more than a fucking thing to fuck."

"You're so much more than that." Frank finally broke the silence that Gerard’s words had created. "You're so much more than that - I promise you that, Gerard Way. You're fucking talented as well, you know that?" And it hurt Frank as to how much Gerard could never quite believe a single word.

"I'm not, I'm just a fuck fucking up and you just feel ridiculously sorry for me, and-" Frank did not let him finish that sentence, and resorted to sitting up and just kissing him.

Needless to say, Gerard had absolutely no objection when it came to Frank's decision here and soon found himself lost in the bitter coffee taste still on Frank's lips, and just the way that the worst fucking person in the world could make him feel.

"You taste like pancakes." Frank giggled as he pulled away, bowing his head in nothing other than a piss poor attempt to hide the blatantly obvious blush upon his cheeks. "It's nice."

"Well..." Gerard sighed out, wondering what this meant and where they'd go from here, and his head spinning like fuck in result of such a hurricane of destructive thoughts. "They were nice pancakes." He turned his head to take note of what was probably about seven pancakes that still remained untouched. "They still are nice pancakes." He corrected himself.

"If you want to, because you care about him, you should go and see your brother." Frank finally gave Gerard the answer he was looking for, and despite that, the twenty eight year old's response as remained as nothing but silence for far too long indeed. "You're not a fuck up, Gerard, you're really not."

"The fact that a prostitute is telling me that I'm not a fuck up is really quite amusing." Gerard smiled, just a little, and Frank really just couldn't help but roll his eyes as the twenty eight year old.

"Shut up, asshole."

"So, you think I should go?" He asked, almost out of just a need for reassurance, pulling his cellphone off the side table where it was charging. "Like, fuck, I'm nervous, Frank, I mean, I don't have high hopes for Mikey himself, let alone this 'girlfriend' of his." Gerard sighed out, shaking his head and definitely not burying it in Frank's side because they were absolutely nothing other than 'friends' who kind of fucked sometimes, definitely.

"Look, if it makes you feel better, I'll go with you- I mean, I mean you might not want me to, and that's fine as well, but I don't want you to feel like a fuck up and I will not let him make you feel like that, okay?" Frank really wasn't aiming for 'over-protective boyfriend', but it really did seem like God had other ideas, and ones that involved actual feelings for Gerard, and if Frank knew anything, it was that feelings were never a good idea at all.

-


	8. I Love Your Asshole Too

It only began to dawn on Frank as to how much of a bad idea this was the very moment that they actually began to walk into the part of the city that wasn't infected with council estates and people like themselves, because it quite obvious with the dark tattered clothing they wore that they didn't belong here at all.

Gerard even had fucking paint stains all over his jeans, and Frank had similar white stains, but of course of the less artist variety.

However, that wasn't exactly the biggest of Frank's problems as he came eye to eye with someone entirely too familiar across the street: blue eyes, long dark hair and this was exactly just where his clients lived, and Frank was an alien in their world, catching far too many familiar gazes as he found himself almost clinging to Gerard's side as the artist made his way down the road in a state of utterly oblivion to Frank's situation.

But Frank just didn't bargain for the consequences of his apparent closeness to the man beside him at all, and with stares turned nasty, paces quickened and Gerard finally caught on as he caught up with Frank's pace, and within moments they were inside a coffee shop and Frank looked just about as if he was about to have seven thousand panic attacks at once.

"Frank... I?" Gerard exclaimed with varying degrees of exasperation, grasping the twenty four year old by the hand, their gazes locked like they were caught up in themselves and the world around them meant nothing and everything at the same time. "Are you okay? You're really not okay, are you- f-fuck? Frank?"

"It sounds ridiculous but I've seen like five people that have paid me to fuck them around here, and it's just fucking different - I feel like a freak show, I feel like that whore, and I... Gerard, I c-can't..." Gerard didn't think, only threw the twenty four year old into a hug, and suddenly who they were didn't matter at all anymore: Gerard and Frank cared about each other, perhaps more than they'd like to admit, but that was it, and that was all that mattered.

"Look, Frank, do you want to go sit down somewhere - I'll get us coffee, and we can sort things out from there, okay?" Frank only nodded in response, pulling away from Gerard and attempting to pull himself together as he went and sat at a table near the back: outside of sight from the window, but from Gerard too.

And just like that, opportunity felt into idiocy and the worst ideas Frank's stupid little head could possibly concoct: the little packet of pills in his back pocket, and safely out of the artist's eye line, he swallowed a few, and his head spun like hell for a few seconds, but from then on, everything was dizzy, blurry, but the good kind - the detached, the distant kind of existing, and for the first time today, Frank Iero could say that he was truly okay.

It seemed that beautiful little pills won over both Gerard and sex itself, which was truly nothing but an intriguing discovery.

"This was a bad idea." Gerard sighed out, his voice catching Frank by surprise as he sat down beside the twenty four year old, totally oblivious to the little white pills and the reason for the stupid little grin on Frank's face. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I... this is clearly making you uncomfortable and Mikey's an asshole so it's just not going to get any better and I-"

"Gerard, it's fucking fine." Frank sighed out, meeting the artist's gaze with nothing short of a grin. "Can't you just ask him to meet us here and we could get coffee or whatever? He could even bring his trophy girlfriend or whatever-"

Gerard cut Frank off with a fit of ridiculously over exaggerated laughter, which due to Frank's words was probably nothing but well deserved. "Trophy girlfriend? So what does that make you then?"

"It makes you my little trophy bitch." Frank corrected him with a smirk and Gerard just rolled his eyes, pulling his coffee mug up to his lips, and burying everything in the bittersweet caffeinated remedy. "I don't do trophy boyfriends."

"Of course." Gerard sighed out, pulling out his cellphone and sending his brother a text alluding to their location and the change in plans and far too little regarding Frank's presence. "He'll be here in like ten minutes."

"Oh lovely, so do remind me just how much of an asshole your brother is. Fuck, I'm nervous, like I actually care, like it doesn't matter if he likes me or not or whatever - I'm just here for you, but it does, god, fuck, this makes me feel like I'm your fucking boyfriend and this is like a fucking double date or something."

"He's probably going to assume that you're my boyfriend and not just a prostitute who I happen to be unfortunately close with." Gerard admitted, his voice trailing off as he came to realise just how fucking boyfriend-y this all was, and yet he couldn't quite figure out if that was either the best or the worst thing to ever happen to him.

"I don't even care anymore." Frank sighed out, throwing his head back against the wall. "We're not boyfriends, per say, I mean, I don't do boyfriends, it's just... I know that you're more than a casual fuck, and that's destroying me, but I care about you enough to let it."

"That's oddly romantic." Gerard admitted and Frank only scoffed in response. "Well, in a weird, typically you kind of way. And by that I mean that you're an absolute asshole."

"And by that you really mean that you love my asshole." Frank corrected him, smirk fully intact and coffee abandoned in favour of Gerard Way and his stupid fucking smile and the one way train to ruining his life. "Because I love yours."

"I love your asshole too." Gerard laughed, because there was nothing quite as ridiculously pathetic as this, and really, there was nothing as quite as wonderful as this awkward not quite boyfriends stage when they were able to pretend that everything was okay and that Frank wasn't a whore and that Gerard wasn't a fuck up.

Pretending was hard, and Frank was wonderful at lying to everyone besides himself, but pills worked like magic in times of need, and they worked even better when they worked in secret.

-

When Mikey Way dragged his rather pissed off girlfriend into a coffee shop on a Saturday morning, he found himself more than a little pissed off, and more than a little shell-shocked to see his brother sat with a boy at his side.

And like that, everything fell into place, but not quite where Mikey wanted it, and perhaps that was just something that he was going to deal with as he went and sat down, his girlfriend following him: engrossed in a text message conversation and seemingly oblivious to the world around her.

"Gerard, hey." Mikey greeted, making far too much of an effort to smile as Gerard considered punching himself in the face and Frank only watched through narrowed eyes as the two brothers interacted in nothing but menial small talk for a while, his gaze however, soon finding it's way to the girl beside Mikey and her immediate disinterest.

Which of course brought nothing but interest for Frank.

"This is my girlfriend, Alicia." Mikey broke the ice of small talk and the girl lifted her head and forced a black lipstick coated smile, and from that moment on, Frank decided that he liked her. Gerard only nodded in her direction: far more preoccupied with his brother and they way he gestured towards Frank, almost as if in request of a similar introduction.

"This is Frank..." He began to stumble over syllables and eventually silence as he met the twenty four year old's eyes with a panicked abundance at just how to introduce him.

"I'm his boyfriend." Frank sighed out, pulling his gaze away from Gerard's and to Mikey's, who seemed to have to physically force a spiteful comment down his throat, which just about made the fact that he was destroying himself for some shitty artist with a cute butt all the more worthwhile.

It wasn't supposed to mean anything - it was just a lie, and it was just to ensure that Mikey shut the hell up, but whenever Frank approached Gerard with the intention of something not meaning anything, things always seemed to backfire, and they always seemed to backfire in the worst possible way.

Because this didn't just mean something, it meant everything.

"Oh, okay, that's nice." And at Mikey's utterly pathetic attempt at not being homophobic, Alicia could do nothing more than snort, finally looking up from his phone and glancing between Gerard and Frank. "Alicia-"

"For fuck's sake, Mikey. He's being an idiot, I'm sorry. He is an idiot, again, I'm sorry. I'm Alicia, as you've been told, I work with him and basically I'm his boss." She giggled a little at that, leaving Mikey to blush as the whole 'professional' facade melted away into nothingness. "We work in general business bullshit, not that any of you'd be all that interested, but whatever."

"I'm an artist." Gerard added, and Frank couldn't help but grin as he smirked like the pretentious asshole he really was.

"Oh that's really cool, are you good-" Frank cut off Alicia's response, not giving Gerard one moment in which to deny his talent.

"He's fucking amazing, like seriously, there are no words for it, I just... he's amazing." Frank sighed out, blushing more than he'd care to admit as he did so.

"Are you sure you're still talking about painting there?" Alicia raised her eyebrows, leaving Mikey to watch almost uncomfortably as Frank continued to blush like hell.

Mikey couldn't deny that Frank made his brother happy though - it was obvious, he just kind of hated how his brother was everything he shouldn't be and yet he was still so much better off than Mikey would ever be. Mikey just wasn't happy - sure he had a wonderful girlfriend and a lot of money, but in comparison to Gerard and that smile, he was nothing.

Mikey never fucking smiled, and there were far too many reasons as to why, and still not a single one that he could really ever even fathom admitting to himself. Mikey was the worst kind of coward: too scared to even admit it to himself.

"So, Frank..." Mikey trailed off, bringing himself back into the conversation in entirely the worst way possible. "What do you do for a living?"

And Gerard had to swallow the legions of fucking laughter that such an innocent question bought, because really, it was the answer to destroy all answers and everything they'd ever known. Of course, Frank didn't find it nearly as amusing, and only flashed Gerard an 'I fucking hate you' glance.

"I'm uhh... unemployed, currently, it's-"

"Yeah, job market and that - ridiculous." Mikey bursted into a topic he actually knew something about, leaving Frank's prostitution far behind them. "I mean, not that, painting's an actual job, is it, Gerard?"

"I'm making money and I like my job and I don't hate myself, so really, I reckon I'm doing better than you ever will, how about that, Mikey?" Gerard snapped, catching Frank's gaze as the twenty four year old sighed out as the artist gestured to the door. "This is just an excuse to show off your girlfriend and establish the fact that you're better than me, isn't it?"

"Gerard, for god's sake, don't be like this for once in your life - how about that?" Mikey sighed out, watching as Gerard flipped him off and got up in an attempt to leave, only for Frank to grab his arm and catch his gaze: something about whether he thought this was a good idea.

But the kind of ideas that Gerard specialised in were majorly heart-wrenchingly bad.

"We're fucking going, okay, Frank?" He snapped, leaving Frank to exhale loudly, glancing in Alicia's direction and muttering some form of apology as he rushed off after Gerard, his head still spinning like hell as he hadn't exactly planned for chasing after some bitchy, pissed off twenty eight year old, but then again, something new everyday, and of all that.

"Gerard! Please!" He sighed out, grabbing the artist by the arm and meeting his gaze.

"Fucking shut up - I can't do this shit, you fucking know, I- fuck, I hate you, you know that? Fucking hate you - I am just your trophy whore, and I fucking-"

Frank cut Gerard off with a connection of their lips and within seconds everything faded out into nothing and then back into everything again, but the good kind of everything: the kind of everything that Gerard could believe in.

-

Things always seemed to work so much better in theory than in practice, and Frank's current situation did nothing but consolidate that belief.

Such as having no feelings for Gerard.

Supporting Gerard when he went to see his brother.

Not kissing Gerard Way.

And it was nothing but to be expected that all of the things that had led Frank into such a situation revolved around none other than Gerard fucking Way.

The artist brought nothing but trouble for Frank and there was just no way around that, but Frank was already in far too deep to even consider going back now.

All he had left was cigarette smoke to clear his head as he sat on a wall at the back of the parking lot and just watched as people made their way about their lives: shopping, driving, living, breathing, some even smoking, some even smiling - fewer.

Happiness was a needle in a haystack in a city like this, and it had really torn Frank's head apart as he came to realise how the wealthy weren't really at all better off than he was in his shitty little flat, getting fucked by men unhappy in their marriages to keep himself alive.

But if anyone in this city was good at anything, it was lying: to anyone, to themselves, to the whole fucking world, or just the person they loved the most.

Frank found himself lying to all four, and simultaneously too.

And that kiss: that fucking kiss, was just a flash of the truth that he could never deal with again, and locking himself up in a bundle of grey skies and cigarette smoke was enough to wish the whole world away, but his clothes still smelled like paint and his heart still sang about Gerard, and he wasn't smoking nearly enough to shut his fucking head up, and he was down to his last cigarette.

Frank Iero was down to the last cigarette, and really, he was down to his last hope as the day drew in as the sun fell behind the corrugated metal roof of a supermarket which only the inhabitants of this part of town frequented, and for the first time in his life, Frank Iero really felt like nothing.

And it didn't matter, not really.

Everything was just grey skies and cigarette smoke anyway: perhaps Gerard was just all he needed to make this okay.

But it had gotten to the point where Frank Iero couldn't quite figure out if he was lying to himself or not anymore.

And as he lit his last cigarette, the comfortable bubble of his own thoughts broke in two with a presence beside him and one entirely too familiar - bad kind of familiar: pull your knees up to your chest and don't breathe for a good few seconds familiar.

At first it was just eye contact, and that was enough - more than enough, too fucking much, and his heart hurt and his cigarette fell limp in his fingers, as everything faded out in a mist of irrelevancy and the world fell far too much into silence, so much that Frank's ears began to ring and the man beside him grimaced.

"So, Iero." He broke the silence first, and this conversation wasn't at informal: clients didn't approach him in public, especially not without a good reason, and especially not with an angry glare across their face. "Explain to me exactly what I've heard about you and this 'boyfriend' of yours."

And this wasn't just any old client of Frank's, this was a guy with a whole business empire and yet felt the need to frequent the shitholes downtown in search of 'his little whore', this guy was fucked up, but he paid like hell, and in the business Frank was in, saying no to money like that was just not an option.

"I don't have a boyfriend." Frank sighed out, biting down on his bottom lip and hating that he knew that somehow this guy had seen him and Gerard earlier, and somehow, he'd made assumptions as to just what a kiss like that meant.

"That wasn't a sex thing, that was an 'I love you' thing - that was a boyfriends thing. I fucking saw it, Iero, be more careful when you take your little boyfriend on dates into town, huh?" He snapped, leaving Frank to throw his last cigarette to the floor in shock. "I don't want to see the guy I love to fuck getting cosy with some random motherfucker."

"Look, I'm sorry - we're not even together, it was just an one time thing, I just- he was upset and wouldn't listen to him and I needed to calm him down and I- I wasn't thinking straight-" Frank's speech was sporadic: tone changing and leaping from syllable to syllable in a messy panic.

"No point apologising, Iero. That little boyfriend of yours got a good old beating up in honour of you forgetting just what you are - a fucking whore. You're worth nothing more than a good fuck - fucking remember that, will you?"

Frank's eyes widened as images of Gerard: beaten, bruised, and bloody flashed through his mind, and there was just nothing he could do to stop it or stop his head from spinning like hell itself.

"You don't fucking own me." Frank snapped right back, standing up: a random flash of courage and all in aid of Gerard Way, but things involving the artist usually seemed to fire right back on Frank Iero.

"Oh but the dollars say different. So think about how you're going to get by without just about half of what you usually make before you get comfortable in the belief that you deserve someone like that."

And with that, the guy stood up and left, leaving Frank Iero with nothing but an empty packet of cigarettes and a mind racing with thoughts as he darted back and forth between the urge to just find something to inject himself with and ride this all out, or run back to Gerard's apartment as fast as he could to say sorry a million times for something he could never control.

-


	9. In Which Gerard Experiences Some First World Problems (And Frank Nearly Dies)

It was fucking cold.

And it was always fucking cold in Gerard's shitty ass apartment, but there was just about nothing that the twenty eight year old could do about that.

Except wear a jumper.

Gerard was too cool for jumpers.

The word 'cool' being used rather literally here.

Gerard Way was just a shivering emo mess sat against the door to his balcony, surrounded, but not quite covered, with blankets: shitty, torn up, ratty, twenty year old blankets - not nice blankets, to say the least.

But then again, in a flat like this, Gerard couldn't really expect anything to be nice, and with a life like his, he couldn't really expect anything to work out alright.

But he most certainly still didn't expect things to work out quite like they had: he didn't want the whole world to end in fists and bruises and not quite so empty threats. Gerard couldn't fucking cope with this, and it was all Frank's fault, it was all to do with fucking Frank, and quite literally so, but still, he couldn't find it within himself to blame the asshole of a twenty four year old who lived next door.

Gerard was just confused, and maybe a little scared, and more fucking alone that ever before, and maybe, just maybe, all he needed was someone to hug him and tell him that everything was okay, but the noises from next door made Frank's stance upon that kiss and its after effects very fucking clear.

He couldn't fucking compete, and he wouldn't not today, and maybe not ever: this wasn't a fucking game and maybe Frank just needed to get that into his head. Maybe, just like Gerard, he needed a good old punch to the face: black eye, and busted, bloody lip, to keep that up in his head.

Gerard pulled his knees up to his chest and tried to focus on anything other than Frank, but of course, soon found that to be much harder than he had anticipated. Frank wasn't everything, but Frank was fucking important and that kiss wasn't just anything, because just maybe, just maybe, that kiss was everything.

But it was quite evident by now that the everything was one sided, as Gerard sat in his flat: broken and bloody as he tried his best not to cry, Frank moaned out next door as any random guy fucked him into his mattress.

But that was just Frank, and Gerard was just Gerard, and maybe they were even okay like this, but they weren't, not anymore.

Feelings had fucked that all up, to say the least; feelings had torn this all to pieces, feelings had torn Gerard to pieces, and Frank wasn't even there to pick them up, to pick him up this time. And Frank had obligation to be, but Gerard still couldn't stop himself from missing something that he didn't even have.

-

The noises stopped at the very least, eventually, that was.

Eventually, everything stopped though - that was just how the world was, and eventually, Gerard would stop feeling like he could die, and he would stop feeling this way for Frank, and his head would stop spinning and maybe he'd even get back up off his feet and fucking sort his life out: one day.

One day.

But not today.

That was beyond evident as the minutes continued to tick past and Gerard's eyes only began to close as the world faded back out into silence.

Silence was exactly how it had been since that fucking kiss because not a word had been shared between the two. For Gerard, it was all punches and no explanation, and for Frank, it was all fucking and forgetting.

Gerard needed a fucking cigarette.

But he couldn't quite drag himself up off the floor to actually get his packet off the counter top, so really, Gerard was having some serious first world problems right now.

Not to mention that his head was fucking spinning, as the silence sounded an awful lot more like screaming, and Gerard hadn't painted in a week, and he couldn't fucking sell Frank whoring himself up in acrylic paint: Gerard couldn't even fucking look at Frank whoring himself up in acrylic paint.

Hell, Gerard even doubted that he could live with the knowledge that the paint was still in the corner of his bedroom, hidden away under the white drape: a simple facade and nothing more than a painful reminder as to just how much Gerard Way found himself lying to himself.

Perhaps he was no better off than Mikey at all, perhaps there wasn't even a real meaning to the word 'happy' and perhaps we were all floating in oblivion endless until we were shot out of the sky like birds.

Gerard definitely felt as if he'd been shot out of the sky, but there was no question about the fact that he'd skipped earth completely and went and fallen straight to hell.

This was what hell was: loving someone and being alone, and hearing them getting fucked by someone else every fucking day.

Gerard even considered smashing the painting just for even considering the fact that he was actually in love with Frank Iero, but really, here Gerard was again - lying to himself, and perhaps that was just fine, or perhaps, Gerard just kept on lying without even fucking thinking about what he was doing, and just how, bit by bit, Frank Iero was destroying Gerard and the whole fucking world around him.

They were drowning, together, but not really - side by side, but never touching, far too stubborn to help one another, and maybe, just maybe, they would have even survived if they'd simply held hands and tread water until the tide finally died down, but it was arrogance and first impressions that killed them in the first place.

It was too late now, and the silence was too loud, as Gerard came to accept that there wasn't a chance in hell (his current place of residence) that he was going to move from his spot by the windowsill until morning, at the very least.

And it was Frank Iero's fault - there was no question about that now, and at the very least, Gerard wasn't blaming himself, but facades, just like walls, would soon tumble, and unlocked doors would open, and one day, eventually, silence would be broken.

Because maybe first impressions weren't everything.

And maybe, just maybe, Gerard Way didn't have to drown, because maybe, he could breathe underwater.

-

Frank's favourite part of his job was most definitely the free drugs.

And if he was shallow to say that, well so be it, but then again, he was a fucking prostitute - it wasn't exactly the most charitable of jobs.

In fact, the free drugs might even be the most charitable aspect, not on Frank's end, but somewhere in there, someone was being a nice guy and now it was all just hookers and cocaine and little pills by the dozen.

Frank's life, of course, wasn't anywhere near as eccentric as that, and right now, it largely consisted of accepting the fact that he was a fucking coward as he leaned back against the wall between his and Gerard's apartments and tried his best to ignore the rather obvious sounds of Gerard sobbing.

It was fault - he knew, and he highly suspected that the guy who just fucked him and the sounds they'd made hadn't exactly made things better for Gerard.

Frank was just a fuck up, and it was only a little bag of pills, but he swallowed them nonetheless, because he couldn't face Gerard and the bruises that he, although indirectly, had caused.

'Sorry' wouldn't cover it - Frank knew that, at the very least, but he still reckoned that no matter what he said, no matter how many times he kissed him, no matter how many times he fucked him, Gerard Way would never fucking forgive him, and it fucking hurt Frank too, because a face as pretty as that didn't need to bruised and broken.

Bruising was for pretty asses, of course, not faces. Frank was fucked up, but not that fucked up, and yet, he still sat, silent in his apartment, pills on his tongue as he gathered the courage just to fucking go talk to a guy he'd had the balls to fucking kiss the other day.

He'd done an absolutely perfect job of being brave enough to fuck up his own life, yet he was absolutely useless when it came to the matter of fixing it.

He swallowed a few more pills, waiting forever and far too long for the effects to actually start, because he couldn't fucking live like this, he couldn't fucking deal with this: he needed an escape, a failsafe, and a fucking adequate apology.

But no apology could quite stretch to cover this, and Frank knew that without even trying.

Because he was clever, and not because he was a fucking coward, of course.

The pills kicked in eventually though, and soon, Gerard's sobs faded out into silence too, and just like that, Frank could just about tell himself that everything was and would be alright, even if just for a few seconds at a time - it was progress at the very least.

Progress in the wrong direction, but in a state like this, that was a fact that Frank could very easily bring himself to ignore - perhaps he could even forget about Gerard and how he'd fucked everything up once and for all.

But he didn't fucking want to.

Frank was fucking selfish and Gerard was fucking beautiful and they didn't deserve each other, but they deserved nothing less at the same time: it was a rollercoaster - the world's biggest headache and the best method of self-destruction.

Frank just couldn't quite gain the guts to fuck himself over for the final time, and all in aid of the cute boy next door and the millions of apologies Frank owed him, and yet, he still couldn't bring himself to try: he was scared and he could never quite admit it.

It was all clockwork in his brain: carefully designed to completely destroy him and everything he ever loved - a time bomb kind of thing. Very Romeo and Juliet and poetic enough to make Frank want to set the time bomb off and end it all right now.

But all it took was confidence and pills and tricking yourself into thinking that you had absolutely nothing to lose, and it took Frank twenty minutes and ten pills to master that, and although his legs shook as he got up from the floor, he had the guts to lie straight to his own face and continue to insist that he was okay.

And soon, footsteps in his own apartment became footsteps in the hallway and then nothing as his hand hovered over the door handle for entirely far too long: this could go nothing but wrong and Frank knew that more than he'd ever know himself, but still, he couldn't quite bring himself to accept the fact that he'd ruin the one thing that ever mattered.

Because this did.

Gerard mattered more than anything and he still didn't quite know as to how on earth he'd landed himself in such a fucking stupid position. Of course, it was nothing more than the fault of his own guilt, too many pills and far too much self-reflection, because maybe, maybe, it wasn't his fault, okay, it certainly was, but maybe he could lie to Gerard too, and maybe he'd forgive him and maybe everything would be fine.

Or at the very least, he could hope, he could hope and lie his way through every last stretch of reality, but still, Frank Iero, couldn't quite bring himself to open a fucking door.

Pathetic was too weak of a word for it.

But, maybe, just with this level of nothing, it was true in that, he had nothing to lose other than the one person that mattered - the one person he'd already lost, and now it was only a matter of apologising until his throat dried up and his words slurred as he prayed and prayed that maybe, just maybe, Gerard would bring himself to even begin to forgive him.

But as he did so, pushing the door open, he found himself making eye contact with Gerard, stood only a metre away from him: about to make his own route to the door.

And from then on, it was awkward gazes and a look of shock at Gerard's bruised face, and as Frank opened his lips for his first apology, he was silenced within seconds as Gerard's lips were on his, pinning the twenty four year old up against the wall.

"What the fuck-" Frank pushed the artist away, just taking a minute to try and stop his head from spinning at such a velocity that caused Frank to seriously consider the possibility of it just downright toppling off his shoulders.

"I'm kissing you because it's okay and we're okay. I'm not good with words." Gerard muttered out an apology: eyes fixated upon rotting floorboards as he counted down the seconds plagued with what he would consider deeming a never-ending silence.

"But we're not okay - there is no fucking us, Gerard, look you got fucking beat up because of me, and yet you're still fucking stupid enough to disregard the fucking warning and continue to act like fucking nothing's happened at all." Frank pulled away from the artist, stopping in his tracks as he really began to focus on the black eye for the first time.

Gerard's pale white skin was plagued with dark purples, deep reds and the kind of blues that had veins growing entirely too close to the surface: it was horror movie make up but so fucking real, and Frank knew that even if it wasn't his doing, there was no way around the fact that it was indeed his fault.

"Your face is fucking ruined, Gerard, fuck-" And Frank seemed to turn a complete one hundred and eighty degrees in the other direction, reaching out and laying his fingertips against the bruised area upon the artist's face: grimacing as Gerard winced at his touch. "Fuck, my head's such a mess, fuck, we're such a mess."

"I thought you said there was no us." Gerard reminded him, eyebrows raised a little, as he looked the twenty four year old down a little: still entirely unsure as to what the hell he was supposed to think. Sure, Frank was so fucking important, and arguably the best thing that had ever happened to him, yet, also just as arguably the worst.

"I just-" Frank choked out, turning away again. "No, fuck, I'm being selfish, I- you're going to get so fucking hurt like this, Gerard, and I can't have that, I just can't have you hurt, fuck, I'm an asshole, Gerard, and you're just too good for a place like this: you should be in some fucking pretentious art gallery in France somewhere and not stuck in this shithole, and I fucking hate that you are."

"And yet, despite this sudden adamancy regarding the fact that I should never get hurt, you were always fucking happy to hit me and hurt me as long as it got you hard. Think about what you say for a minute, Iero. I nearly gave you a second chance, but you're just fucking highlighted just how excellently you fucked everything up. You're a fucking asshole, Frank."

"I know." Frank choked out, biting his lip too fucking hard in an over exaggerated and almost theatrical struggle to keep his mouth shut.

"Fucking stop it." Gerard snapped out, pulling himself away from the twenty four year old in an awful hurry: emotions and hormones buzzing about the hair and tugging at pieces of his conscious in an attempt to drag the artist deep down into the depths of insanity.

"Stop what?" Frank looked up at that: all bright eyes and 'o' shaped lips, and Gerard had to forcefully eradicate every thought from his mind, because he was supposed to be pissed, he was supposed to fucking hate the guy, but he just couldn't: he was a mess, and it was entirely Frank Iero's fault, and yet, he wanted nothing more than to fucking kiss him again, maybe just because he could.

"Stop messing with my head. I want to kiss you and punch you at the same time and I can't fucking cope: we're a mess." Gerard threw his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, and before he knew what was happening, Frank's hands were at his hips and he was all over his lips.

And like that, it was kisses and all too much tongue and croaky little back of throat noises as common sense was put to rest and the pills Frank had taken really started to take effect.

His head was spinning like fucking hell itself, but the twenty four year old had it pinned down to the artist he had pinned against the wall and not the signs that everything was really about to go to shit, and not the 'punch your boyfriend in the face' kind of shit, but 'too many pills and all too late' kind of shit, as Frank pushed himself away from Gerard, vomit rising in his throat.

"Frank?" The artist managed to choke out after just the few seconds that it took before his brain caught up to just what was happening and just how they'd gone from yelling to kissing and then to that look on Frank's face, which quite honestly scared him. "Frank, are you okay?"

And then before either of them knew anything, Frank was leaving over Gerard's toilet, practically throwing up all of his organs, as Gerard to continued to beg for some kind of explanation as he was left speechless.

And in that moment: vomit that never seemed to stop and the scarily pale colour in Frank's cheeks, Gerard really thought that the guy was going to die, and that he was just going to stand there fucking helpless and watch.

The vomiting stopped eventually after entirely too long, but still Gerard was beyond relieved, rushing down to sit beside Frank and comfort him like nothing had even happened between them at all, grabbing him a glass of water and being all too affectionate in a stupid attempt to comfort someone who was moments away from punching him in the face just a few minutes ago.

Frank, utterly calm, just looked across at Gerard with a lazy grin, shaking his head and muttering like this was nothing more than a fucking regular occurrence and not, in Gerard's mind, a near death experience.

"Bad fucking pills. Fucking shitty, fuck- fucking laced." He shook his head once more, as Gerard continued to watch wide-eyed. "Guy gave me these for a fuck today - seems that just maybe they're out to get me too, huh? Fuck, this isn’t good. I should probably keep away from you if I don't want to end up dead."

"Yeah." Gerard added, sighing out, but smiling just a little, because maybe rationality was the only thing that could save them now. "Half the time it feels like you're killing me, Iero."

"Nah, like this, I'm just killing myself."

"Huh-"

And before Gerard could even focus upon what was happening, everything logical was disregarded for the sake of Frank's lips upon Gerard's.

And metaphorically, that was Frank saying that he would die for Gerard, but this wasn’t fucking Shakespeare – this was a shitty ass apartment block in a shitty ass town and this was just the effects of pills and cute boys acting together to ensure that their lives were just about ruined.

After all, around here, Frank knew much better than just to ignore a warning.

-


	10. Pretentious Artist Asshole Vibes

For the course of the last few days, Frank Iero's apartment had remained entirely devoid of any signs of life whatsoever: clients, Gerard, the bacteria that had long ago taken residence in the corners and never-dusted spots in the apartment, and not even Frank himself.

His clients had been the most concerned, knowing that someone like Frank Iero always answered his phone, especially when he knew that he could make money from it - in Frank's word, everything was about money. But of course, clients were just clients and when they came to find that the services they sought after weren't being provided to them, they simply moved along.

And perhaps that was okay.

Perhaps that even should have been the twenty four year old's intentions, as after all, the man who had pretty much become his boss as of recent: the guy from the parking lot - his title was more important than his name. 

Fucking CEOs.

But then again, that was pretty much Frank's job description: fucking stubborn, self-centred, sociopathic, pathologic liars in denial of their sexuality with just quite a lot of cash to spend and the right connections in order to find themselves placing hundreds of dollar bills into Frank Iero's hands.

But of course, this guy was more than a little attached, having decided that Frank wasn't just a whore, but his whore, which really wasn't something that Frank's job description allowed him to work with.

It was Gerard that was the main issue though, and still even with that knowledge, it was none other than Gerard Way's living room that Frank found himself sat in instead of his own. Well, in afterthought, it wasn't really all that much of a living room: Gerard's flat consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom, and then everything else and with just about one working door for the whole place, and a front door that didn't even seem to be aware of what locking was.

This was a bad idea and Frank was an idiot, but Frank was a guilty idiot and the black eye that the twenty eight year old wore with absolutely no intentions of hiding continuously served as a reminder of such.

Because it was his fault: there was absolutely no way around that, and he would have to make up for it: again, there was no way around that, but Frank was struggling to put his words into practice, and instead of actually doing something that any sane person would do, such as, listening to the guy that had already demonstrated that he could and would ruin Frank's entire life if need be, and just leaving Gerard alone - hell, Gerard would probably even thank him for it.

But, of course, this could never be quite that simple, and it was none other than the fault of the chemicals in Frank's brain that he was sat almost awkwardly upon the artist's sofa, forcing slightly out of date cereal down his throat, and with his job, you would think that Frank Iero would be good at forcing things down his throat, but, it seemed quite the contrary, or really, maybe it was just the fact that he tended to deep throat cocks and not cereal.

"Frank, are you sure you're alright?" Gerard spoke up into the prolonged silence, catching Frank's attention and almost causing the twenty four year old to choke on his cereal. "It's like two days and you still haven't said anything about why you're here, and when you drift off into space: unfocused and lost in your own head, you just look you're scared, you look you're hiding Frank, and I'm scared too."

"Don't be." Frank sighed out, watching as Gerard made his way over to the sofa, sitting beside his newfound flatmate. "I'm fine, Gerard, look I would have told you if I wasn't." Frank placed the half-eaten cereal bowl onto the coffee table having given up on it entirely.

"But you have." Gerard sighed out, leaning into Frank's side, and taking advantage of the fact that the twenty four year old was just too tired to protest. "Not verbally, of course. You'd never make it that easy. But your body language, your gestures, the way you act, Frank, they say a lot, especially when I know you as well as I do."

"Oh dream on, Gerard, you hardly know me at all." Frank laughed it off, moving his body a little to accommodate Gerard more comfortably.

"You haven't asked me to have sex yet. You haven't had sex in the past two days, and you're you: something's up and quite clearly so." Gerard sighed out, his gaze fixated upon the one window in his apartment, the balcony and the stony grey skies beyond: factory fumes and pollution, headaches and lung cancer - that was all you got here, and just maybe, Frank was far too complacent with that.

"Maybe I just don't want to. Have you ever even considered that?" Frank shrugged off Gerard's comment with yet more lies: Gerard was fucking right, of course he was, and of course, he had to be, but no matter just how right he was, he was still nowhere near closer to getting Frank to actually admit a single thing.

Frank couldn't make the mistake of letting his guard down again, even not in front of Gerard, who, although Frank daren’t admit it, mattered one awful hell of a lot to him. 

"Frank, you always want to." Gerard exclaimed, laughing a little as he did so, and Frank gave him a little shove in response: light-hearted and meaningless, of course. "You have more sex in a week than I have had, and most likely ever will have in my life time.

"I could change that." Frank mused: thoughts spoken aloud and something Gerard had grown used to over the past few days - it was better than when Frank left his subconscious caged up inside him, slowly tearing away at every last shred of sanity in him.

"You could." Gerard added, smiling, just a little: this wasn't the time, although it could be, but there was just something about sitting here and just talking - there was just something about Frank's presence that Gerard had grown to adore. It was lovesick and fucking stupid, but there was no way around it, and he'd settled with deeming acceptance to be the only logical course of action.

"Not now." Frank sighed out, pulling Gerard closer to him: a subconscious gesture, but not one that his conscious mind made any effort to cover or undo.

"Not now." Gerard agreed, mumbling words into Frank's side - he smelt like cigarettes, and somehow, that was comforting. "You should tell me what's wrong though." The artist added after a moment or two of reflection. 

"Not now." Frank repeated, leaning into Gerard a little, leaving the artist to move so Frank was practically sat on Gerard's lap at this point.

"Why not?" Gerard sighed out, playing with Frank's hair, twirling it around his fingers and leaving Frank to whinge and pretend that he cared so much more than he actually did.

"Just because." Frank left his response vague, and as the artist continued in silence, waiting for an expansion upon his response, Frank let out a sigh and another, "just because."

"Just because what, Frank?" Gerard continued, knowing that he was being more than annoying at this point, but he just couldn't bring himself to care, because Frank was important and what was bothering him was far more important than just how pissed off at him Frank would be for about the next ten minutes.

This time, the twenty four year old only shrugged in response, grabbing the packet of cigarettes from the coffee table: Gerard's, but it didn't really matter anymore, or at least, Frank was going to exploit Gerard's cigarettes until it did matter.

"Come on, tell me." Gerard added, watching as the twenty four year old lit the cigarette between his lips and moved to place the packet back on the table, only for Gerard to stop him. "If you're going to keep stealing my cigarettes, light me one too, at the very least."

Frank chuckled a little at that, and Gerard struggled to tell himself that it wasn't cute, and that Frank Iero wasn't the cutest fucking piece of shit that he'd ever laid his eyes upon: needless to say, he soon found he couldn't manage it, and gave up within seconds. 

"Fine." Frank rolled his eyes, turning a little in Gerard's lap so that he was practically straddling him now, and reaching up to place the cigarette between Gerard's lips, biting his lip as he lit it, blushing as Gerard caught his gaze, and goddamn, Frank needed to stop blushing, especially in front of Gerard Way, but there was just something about the artist that left him utterly fucking helpless.

"Thanks." Gerard grinned, taking a drag of his cigarette, as Frank placed the packet back on the coffee table, finally removing his own cigarette from his lips and letting it hang loosely between his fingers. "I think the fact that I'm letting you smoke my cigarettes out of the kindness of my heart should convince you to just give me the slightest hint as to what's going on, and why you're here, and why you're acting different: all cuddling and domestic shit, not whoring yourself about and calling me an asshole every five minutes."

"It's complicated." Frank shrugged it off, going with the first excuse he could think of and simply hoping for the best, but as he really just should have expected, it didn't go exactly to plan.

"So? I'm complicated, Frank, you're complicated, we're complicated - the whole world is fucking complicated, come on. Look, I just want to know because, believe it or not - I actually care about you, Iero." Gerard shook his head, wondering if he'd ever receive any form of response on Frank's behalf, or whether they were doomed to say on this shitty, dying sofa, smoking themselves to death forever.

"This is to do with why you got beat up and why someone tried to like poison me." Frank began, watching as Gerard nodded, perhaps just a little too eagerly for him to continue. "Basically, this fucking psycho guy that thinks he owns me really doesn't like the fact that we kissed last week when we went to see Mikey, but he's like my highest paying client and he knows, he fucking knows that basically he controls whether I'm homeless or not, and he wants to keep me all to himself, and it's just fucked up, Gerard, because I am scared, I'm so fucking scared. I shouldn't be here: he'll hurt you too if he finds me here, but fuck, I'm scared, and I need you, fuck, Gerard, I'm such a fucking coward but-"

Gerard cut him off right there with a kiss to his lips: short, chaste, and kind of smoky - cigarette smoke that is, and not like smoking hot, or well, barbeque smoke or... chimney smoke, or something.

"Can't you fucking do something about this? Like, I don't know, call the police on him?" Gerard asked, eyes widening in concern for the twenty four year old, and really, this was never supposed to happen: Gerard was never supposed to care, and more importantly, Frank was never supposed to care in return.

"Yeah, because the police are really going to like the fact that I'm a prostitute, aren't they?" Frank rolled his eyes, moving so he was spread out across the sofa again, with only his head in Gerard's lap.

"That's fucked up." Gerard shook his head, brushing Frank's hair from his face as the twenty four year old only shrugged in response.

"That's life."

"Still." Gerard sighed, throwing his gaze up against the ceiling, and biting down his lip in his best efforts as to not admit that now he was more than just a little bit scared too. "Do you think he'll just give up, after a while, I mean?"

"Could do." Frank shrugged: eyes wide and his gaze almost vacant. "But who knows? I don't want to risk it, I'll just stay on the down low for a few weeks, I guess, and just hope for the best."

"And are you assuming that those few weeks are ones that you're going to spend in my apartment?" Gerard asked, eyebrows rising as Frank's cheeks fell victim to the world's most embarrassing blush.

"I-I-I..."

"It's fine." Gerard sighed out, meeting Frank's gaze. "I like having you here. I like you, Frank."

"Still, I feel bad, now. I mean, I'm not even paying rent or anything - I'm just abusing your hospitality. I'm not making this at all worthwhile on your part, and I feel like I should, I want to."

"Well, then, I'm pretty sure someone like you knows how to make something worthwhile, huh?" Gerard's face broke way to a smirk: one that the younger shared.

"Oh, yeah, I really do."

-

And that was exactly how Gerard Way and Frank Iero had ended up in the artist's bedroom.

Of course, just what they were doing in there was an entirely different matter altogether, but one of a rather obvious nature: loud, passionate, and just a little violent - they were playing Cards Against Humanity.

Of course, don't be ridiculous.

And Gerard was especially disgruntled to discover that Frank was abnormally good at Cards Against Humanity, but then again, it was Frank Iero - he had a natural and unquestioned talent when it came to anything even vaguely involving a bedroom of some kind.

He also seemed to be really good at nearly dying, but it seemed that quite a lot of people were these day - weird, huh?

"You're good at everything and cute as hell - I hate you, Frank Iero, I really do." Gerard sighed out, after just having lost for like the third time, and having given up pretty much entirely by this point.

"You don't sound all convincing, just saying." Frank added, looking up at the artist as he packed the cards, which Gerard just so casually had in his closet, away. "But, I can assure you that there are a multitude of things which I am absolutely terrible at."

"Such as?" Gerard asked: eyebrows raised - utterly unconvinced.

"Not falling for you." And it was cheesy as fuck, and Gerard maybe would have slapped Frank across the face for it, if it didn't instantly melt his insides, rendering him nothing but a bundle of happiness, and god, that was weird: happiness wasn't something he was entirely accustomed to, especially the kind of happiness that went deep, and actually had physical repercussions, not just the smile on your face at a birthday party.

"You're also terrible at nothing being a fucking pathetic motherfucker by the looks of it, then." Gerard added with raised eyebrows, but the world's biggest grin on his lips, because there was no way he could deny the fact that Frank Iero made him feel special, made him feel happy, made him feel okay.

Because he did.

And god, it was fucking weird, fucking wrong, fucking messed up, but dear god, he'd never change it for the world.

"Yeah, I am." Frank finally added, just smiling at Gerard: smiling like he meant it, really, and that was a first. "But you are too, come on, face it."

"Yeah." Gerard leaned into the twenty four year old's side: the two now laid back on Gerard's bed - eyes moving in fast succession between the questionable, yet impressive paint stains on Gerard's ceiling, and one another. "I am, but it's okay. You make it okay, you make me feel okay."

"I don't think anyone's ever said that to me before." Frank admitted, grabbing Gerard's hand, like it was normal and like they were normal, and like he didn't have to worry about anything at all - not even reality itself. "There's probably good reason for that, but whatever, it made me smile, it made me feel okay too."

"You're perfect, you know that, don't you, Frank?" Gerard finally sighed out into the silence that Frank's confession brought: an okay kind of silence, everything was just that - okay, and complacent. The world had seemed to slow down and reality had seemed to fade away for a while just for the two of them, and maybe that was what falling in love felt like: well, it was either that or the pills Frank had downed by the dozen - he couldn't quite figure it out yet.

"Don't fucking lie to me, Gerard Way." Frank laughed that one off, rolling his eyes, and letting his gaze drift over to the cabinet in the corner of the room and the way that the door didn't even close properly, and how Gerard deserved so much more than this shitty ass apartment in this shitty ass neighbourhood in this shitty ass city and this shitty ass not quite boyfriend.

Gerard Way deserved the world, and Frank knew that one day he'd be able to get it.

But the question was in whether he'd leave Frank Iero behind for it, because maybe, just maybe, in the end it'd be down to the person that meant the world or the world itself.

"I'm not lying." Gerard's reaction was delayed but it no way less truthful, in fact more so, perhaps, as he'd spend the silence buried six feet deep in his own thoughts. "I wouldn't lie to you - I can promise you that."

"And what do promises really mean?" Frank asked - eyes anywhere but Gerard; it wasn't conflict, not really, just disruption and questioning - unpleasant, yet necessary, and downright unavoidable.

"Whatever you want them to." Gerard added, his words scattered lampposts on a street of empty sighs. "I promise you that I mean every word I ever say to you, Frank, and it's just up to you as to what you make of that."

"Your pretentious artist assholes vibes are rubbing off on me, huh?" Frank let out a giggle, and just like that, a trance seemed to be broken, and everything resided in what was really between the two of them: less about the content of the words and more about what they really meant.

Less about what they actually said, and more about what they didn't.

"Not the only thing that's rubbing off on me really, is it?" Gerard smirked, receiving a gentle shove from the twenty four year old for that comment.

"Yeah, seems like my fucked up sense of humour is too." Frank rolled his eyes, turning away from the artist in mock disapproval, but with Gerard's arms around his waist, he was soon brought back: Gerard Way was Frank Iero's weakness, whatever.

"I wasn't making jokes, Iero." Gerard clarified, smirking a little as he heard the little gasp Frank barely managed to keep down his throat. "Do you want to fuck me again?"

"Do you really need to ask? Is that really a question? Look at me, you fucking asshole, and look at you, and look at us, and just appreciate how good it feels to fuck that pretty little butt of yours."

It soon became apparent, of course, that the pretentious artist asshole vibes were by no means permanent, and maybe, just maybe, that didn't matter at all.

Gerard loved Frank for who he was and not what he said, not really: pretentious asshole, or wanting to put his dick in Gerard's asshole.

"Okay." Gerard exhaled loudly - too loudly almost, but who was to be the judge of that, really. "Fuck me, Iero. Make it good."

"I always do."

"I know."

-


	11. Look There's A Vague Notion Of Plot In This Chapter!

And maybe that was just how it had to be: the artist pressed down against his bed as the whole world faded away, because if Frank Iero was good at anything, it was fucking problems away, and really, it seemed to be a communal effect.

Also, well it was sex with an attractive guy - it wasn't like Gerard was having a bad time here: any way you looked at it.

"Don't fucking move." Frank's tone was rough, and as was the grip on Gerard's hips with which he held the twenty eight year old down against the bed. "You hear me, you fucking slut?" And dear god, Gerard did, but it took everything just to obey him: his senses in overlord, as he was driving himself crazy here.

"Y-yeah, fuck, F-Frank..." His voice was strained out and muffled slightly, yet still, he forced his gaze into Frank's, nodding at the twenty four year old: he was okay, and he certainly wasn't going to give in just yet.

"Yeah, that's right, baby, I'm going to fuck you, and you're going to be a good slut and shut the fuck up, yeah?" And just like that, Frank was pulling Gerard's thighs apart like they were nothing, and the artist melted into nothing at his touch: this was Frank's kind of art, and this time he'd not be the artist, but the subject.

"Yeah." Gerard sighed out, throwing his arms back against the mattress as Frank rolled on a condom and lubed himself up, and really, Gerard couldn't help but be a little on edge: sure, this had happened before, but fuck, this was Frank, and somehow Frank just made everything so much more important than it really was, not that Gerard complained, for the most part, at least.

"God, how are you always so fucking tight, Jesus fucking Christ, I fucking prepped you and everything, god- ah..." Frank moaned out, hands moving down from Gerard's hips to his thighs - spreading them apart and keeping Gerard open.

"Fuck..." Gerard moaned out, wincing a little at first from the stretch, but god, this was Frank, and it wasn't like Gerard hadn't had things up his ass before.

"You want me to fuck you harder, do you?" Frank smirked a little, watching the artist's face: sheen with sweat and his lips completing in with a perfect little explicit 'o' shape, and really, like that, Gerard looked like the whore here, and not Frank.

"Yes-" Gerard began, only for Frank to cut him off, pushing himself further into the artist, and releasing nothing short of the dirtiest moan he'd ever heard from the older of the two.

"Yes what? Manners, you fucking whore - don't forget them." Frank smirked, grabbing Gerard's wrists and pinning them up against the mattress, and leaning over the artist, pressing him down further, and fuck, Gerard would be a liar if he said that he didn't absolute fucking love being dominated like this, even if only by a certain Frank Iero.

"Yes... yes please." Gerard sighed out, groaning as Frank thrust into him with everything he had, and of course, hitting his prostate at the same time, pulling nothing short of a scream from the artist's lips. 

"Good boy- fuck..." Frank sighed out, panting a little: he too was fucking hard and over sensitive beyond belief, but he'd put up with the ache and need just to tease and fuck his slut for a few more minutes: Gerard was everything to him, even if he struggled to admit as such. "Such a fucking good boy, I'm so fucking hard for you... I fucking want you... I need you-"

"Then take me." Gerard stuttered out, shaking as Frank continued to thrust into him: sloppier than before, and with only a vague notion of rhythm, but fuck, he didn't care: it felt too good for him to even consider caring. "Take me, Frank."

"I'm tempted, fuck, I'm tempted, but you're not begging enough, are you?" Frank grinned at that, thrusting forward again, and nearly letting go in the process, because fuck, Gerard was one tight slut, but not one that deserved it, at least not yet anyway.

"I'm sure this was your rent payment, wasn't it, Frank? So just fuck me, huh, how about that?" Gerard smiled a little, only to be cut off as Frank began to fuck him harder in response.

"I'm sure little sluts only do as they're told, so, if you want to come, Gerard, you're going to have to beg for it - fucking how about that?" Frank was practically yelling at him by now, leaving Gerard more than a little scared, but far too turned on to care. "You're not supposed to boss me around, I'm not the slut here, remember. You and me - this is when you're the slut and I'm in control, and that's why I love fucking you so much."

"I love being fucked by you." Gerard admitted, grinning up at Frank: eyes wide, and it was clear that he was so damn close.

"God, you're close already, aren't you?" Frank almost laughed, slowing the rhythm a little, teasing the fuck out of Gerard, and just because he could.

"Y-Yes.." Gerard words were choked out as Frank's hands moved down his body to his hips and then to his dick: fucking hard, and unbelievably so, of course. "Please, Frank, please-"

"See, begging, that's what I was talking about." Frank smirked, wrapping his hand around Gerard's base, and watching as the twenty eight year old practically fucking moaned in response. "Don't fucking come until I tell you to - until I let you. You're mine like this, remember that?"

"I couldn't forget it." Gerard promised him: words littered with breathy little moans as he struggled to obey the younger, because although, at times, it was all he felt like he was meant to do, but right now, when Frank was fucking him like this, not coming was practically goddamn impossible.

"Course you couldn't." Frank smirked, thrusting into Gerard before he even knew what was happening, and god, with that fucking scream, Frank was coming everywhere, in and that ecstasy, he squeezed Gerard, moving his hand up to the tip, but Gerard was coming before he even managed that.

"Fuck... Frank...." And of course, Gerard came, moaning Frank's name, and really, if Frank hadn't just come that would have been enough to completely send him over the edge.

Frank moved away from Gerard, tying up the condom and throwing it into the bin in the corner, before lying back on the bed beside Gerard.

"So, you reckon that's rent payment enough?" Frank asked, grinning a little.

"Yeah, like this, you can stay until you're seventy." Gerard admitted, turning to smile at the twenty four year old.

"Yeah, I doubt I'll live to seventy, but whatever."

"Don't die on me, Iero." Gerard snapped, his tone deadly serious.

"I won't, I promise."

-

By the next morning, Gerard was fucking inspired, not that it was exactly unlikely that actual sex would somehow inspire him to keep painting porn for weird creepy old men who bought it off craigslist and the like, but whatever, it paid the bills, and the inspired buzz was probably the best thing he'd felt in a long time.

Frank was just a little surprised to find Gerard up at the crack of dawn, painting a dude that looked suspiciously like Frank, just with lighter hair, having an orgasm, when he got up to go to the bathroom, and overwhelming need to piss or not, he found himself staring at the artist, because, of course, he was painting whilst dressed in absolutely fucking nothing.

"I know you love my ass, but staring at it whilst I'm trying to concentrate is kind of distracting." Frank jumped more than just a little at Gerard's comment, the artist meeting his gaze in the mirror that Frank didn't even know he'd set up beside his work.

"Then you shouldn't paint naked, especially in a flat where the door doesn't even fucking lock and you have to put a chair up against it just to stop random people from walking in." Frank groaned: tired, and not exactly ready to deal with Gerard's remarks, and far more prepared to just go back to sleep, but Gerard's ass really was distracting.

"But where's the fun in that?" Gerard grinned in the mirror, 'stretching', and really just moving his ass, and god, Frank was far too tired for this.

"It's like six in the morning, how are you even awake?" Frank sighed out, still having not just gone to piss, and remained stood in the doorway, trying his best not to just directly stare at Gerard's ass, but then again, it wasn't entirely like the artist minded at all.

"Inspiration. Woke up like an hour ago with like an uncontrollable urge to paint, so I made some coffee and got naked and started to paint, now I have a masterpiece that looks suspiciously like you, and I wonder just who's to blame for that."

Frank only rolled his eyes in response, hiding just how much he really did love Gerard painting him like this. "You got naked to paint?"

"Of course. I always get naked to paint, I mean, the first time, when you were there... I was uhh... kind of nervous, but... to make art, I feel like I have to be naked." Gerard admitted, blushing just a little as he thought back to the first time he had painted Frank.

"And I thought I was the slut..."

"Sex is an art too, you create something, even if it's just an orgasm, but that's something beautiful I-"

"Just an orgasm? Shut the fuck up, Gerard Way." Frank shook his head, almost as if he was entirely disappointed with the artist, before finally going to have the fucking piss he'd gotten up to have, and not to stare at his kind of boyfriend's ass as he painted what was kind of him.

"Make me coffee, will you?" Gerard asked as Frank made his way out of the bathroom.

"Have you ever thought that I might have just wanted to go straight back to bed?" Frank groaned out, but made his way into the kitchen nonetheless: Gerard Way's ass did unspeakable things to him, to say the least.

"Yeah, but I really need a cup of coffee." Gerard shrugged it off, smirking as he heard the kettle start to boil, and turned to probably look at Frank for the first time. "Thanks... for the coffee."

"Yeah, I'm make myself some too, this isn't just for you, asshole." Frank rolled his eyes, grinning to himself, because maybe, just maybe, he was just a little bit in love with Gerard Way and his fucking dick paintings.

"So you're not planning on going back to bed then - coffee, huh? You want to watch me paint, or just stare at my ass?"

"Both." Frank sighed out, bringing a cup of coffee over to Gerard. "Shall I just put it here?" He gestured towards the spot on the table where he'd set up his paint.

"Yeah, just make sure that it's not next to the fucking paint water - I've made that mistake before and it's not exactly fun." Gerard rolled his eyes as Frank giggled a little, placing the coffee down and the making his way over to the sofa, holding his own cup in his hands as he sat there with his knees pulled up to his chest and definitely watching Gerard paint and not just his ass.

"I like living with you, you know." Frank admitted after a few minutes of silence: Gerard still hadn't even touched his coffee yet, far too focused upon the paint that looked entirely too much like Frank, even though it wasn't supposed to.

"Yeah?"

"I don't really like putting up with other people, but I'd say that you're a definite exception. I just wish that it didn't have to be like this, with that fucking guy, and with him texting me, just fucking threatening me all the time. Fuck, I wish, I could fuck people again, like I wish I could properly give you rent, like fucking hell, I'm drinking your coffee right now, I-"

"Frank, come on, look-" Gerard put his paintbrush down at that point, making his way over to the sofa and sitting down beside Frank - still fucking stark naked. Frank had put sweatpants on, at the very least. "I like having you here too. It's okay, we'll be okay, and I don't want you to have to get fucked by random guys just to live."

Frank shrugged, leaning against Gerard a little. "This isn't permanent though - what you said about me staying here until I was seventy... this isn't going to work that long... we're not going to work that long."

"What makes you say that?"

"Ge- I just... I just know." 

-

It was just another day, and just another load of shit: nothingness that meant everything, and everything that meant absolutely nothing, well truly.

Mikey Way was in a bittersweet love hate relationship with his existence, and Alicia Simmons was the pushy third wheel, but Mikey was beyond glad to have her there, otherwise he really would have absolutely no incentive to get out of bed in the morning.

He perhaps wouldn't go as far as to say that he was in love with her: he was in love with himself, of course, she was second best, but she didn't need to know that- in fact, she definitely did not need to know that when she was making him breakfast in her underwear, fuck.

Mikey was tired as fuck: having stayed up until at least one contemplating the meaning of his existence and the pros and cons of just smothering himself with his pillow. He'd fallen asleep before he could reach any sort of conclusion and all recollection of his thought process last night was long gone with his sanity - nothing more than the power of a Monday morning, of course.

But, he knew as hell that waking up to have his girlfriend make him coffee whilst wearing next to nothing was absolutely worth it, because damn, the coffee wasn't the only thing that was piping hot and making him choke as it burned the fuck out of him, and leaving him to then spend the next few minutes swearing violently - it was entirely necessary, of course.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" Alicia smirked at her boyfriend, raising one eyebrow as she watched the cursing subside in favour of delivering her his full attention: one of the many signs that Mikey Way was completely and utterly in love with her, and really, it hadn't taken Alicia any time at all to catch on.

She kind of liked it, though, even with his utter reluctance to ever accept, let alone admit such a thing, but knowing that Mikey would do anything if she asked was sort of empowering, and probably really fucking corrupt somewhere down the line, but whatever, he was cute and he was in love with her - surely that was enough.

And surely toast and coffee at seven on a Monday morning with her boyfriend wasn't supposed to make her consider grabbing the gun from her wardrobe - that one Mikey was utterly unaware that she owned - and shooting up the whole town, but really, she wasn't a psychopath, she promised.

Anyway, Mikey was fucking cute when he was tired, and that was perhaps enough to subdue her unstoppable hatred of the world for a few hours at the very least.

"Mmm..." Mikey groaned, it taking all of his willpower not to just flat out throw his head down against the kitchen table, and most likely spill his coffee everywhere in consequence, and really, Mikey did not need that sort of motivation to shower, especially not now, on a Monday morning, when he was really just considering running himself a bath and drowning himself in it.

"You look like you want to shoot yourself." Alicia took it upon herself to point out the blatantly obvious, and Mikey only nodded in agreement. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't, though, just saying, I'm looking forward to when we have sex tonight, and I'm really not into necrophilia."

"We're having sex tonight?" And that was enough to motivate Mikey entirely, and in fact, his voice even began to take on a cheery tone, which was just fucking unbelievable in consideration of the circumstance.

"We'll see." Alicia smirked, winking a little, before getting up and grabbing a bottle of vodka from the cupboard.

"We have work in like thirty minutes- are you fucking serious?" Mikey's eyes widened, watching her every move as she unscrewed the cap on the bottle.

"Why not?" She shrugged it off, flashing him a smirk. "You want?" She gestured in his direction with the bottle, and nearly spilling it across the kitchen floor as she did so.

"We'll get fired, Alicia." Mikey reminded her, and really, he hated to be the anchor in the relationship, but fucking hell, he was not chancing getting fired, sure this job was fucked up and boring, but dating his boss had just a few benefits that Mikey found himself rather grateful of.

"Well, you might." She shrugged it off, downing a little and grimacing as she did so. "My supervisor totally fancies me so it's fine, look if he threatens me with it, then I'll just fuck him, and then blackmail him into keeping quiet about it-"

"Yeah, vodka or not, I'd still really appreciate it if you didn't fuck other people." Mikey sighed out, finishing his coffee and getting up, whilst gathering the motivation not to drown himself in the shower, as he really doubted Alicia would be all that happy about dragging her dead boyfriend's corpse out of there, and then she'd be so pissed off with him that she definitely fuck her supervisor - regardless of whether he threatened to fire her or not.

Alicia Simmons was far too good for him, and Mikey knew that like he knew that he absolutely despised the whole fucking world, but then again, so did she, and perhaps that was exactly what they had in common- well, that and their music taste, their hatred of work and actually working.

"Sex tonight, yeah?" She yelled down the hallway after him, and despite the middle finger Mikey threw in her direction in response, she already knew that was a yes, no doubt about it: he was head over heels for her, and she fucking loved it.

She did kind of love him too, well, maybe more than a kind of - she didn't make breakfast in her underwear for just anyone, but she wasn't quite as all out and lovesick puppy-ish as Mikey was, meaning she actually knew the definition of the word subtlety.

She took another swig of the vodka bottle and stashed it back in the cupboard before she could even begin to suspect that she had a drinking problem, because she was totally fine and she totally didn't, and she had a cute boyfriend and a well paying job and surely that was enough, like she wasn't homeless or a prostitute leaving in depressing poverty, but there was no way in hell that she could ever say that she was truly happy.

She needed to just fuck shit up, and she needed to make this menial existence worthwhile, and maybe, just maybe, that vodka was starting to convince her that the gun hidden away in the wardrobe and that the idea of actually using it wasn't such a bad idea at all.

After all, she didn't buy it for nothing. 

-


	12. This Is The Bit When I Introduce 45789 New Characters & The Plot Is Fucked

Alicia had left work that day - two hours early and with a pistol in her handbag, and far too much adrenaline in her veins, because for such a sin - it felt so good, and maybe, just maybe she shouldn't drink vodka, but maybe, just maybe the world should step up its game if life was getting so boring that she was forced to resort to creating her own kind of fun with a gun.

The first shot was shaky and kind of nervous: the darkness in the back of an alleyway and someone that didn't deserve it at all: just a person, but just someone with a skull for a bullet to crack open, and for Alicia, that was more than enough.

It was only a small hand size pistol and therefore, the bang wasn't too loud, which admittedly did work in her favour, but still despite the man's bleeding body on the floor before her, it didn't quite feel real and despite his death, she still felt like she hadn't really done anything.

She stood in silence for entirely far too long as she just about struggled to accept what she'd just done, because maybe, vodka or not, this was a bad idea - this was a life-ruining idea, but maybe, just maybe Alicia Simmons didn't care one little bit.

And that confidence was over before it even started with the firm grip of a hand on her shoulder as she practically died on the spot, much in contrast to the guy a few feet away, who did actually lie dead on the floor, and the pistol in her hands that very much revealed to just who'd shot him.

"What are you still doing here?" The voice was deep, and kind of rough, yet somehow just a little off and unplaceable, but even if this was the voice of pubescent Justin Bieber, it would have still been enough to have Alicia shaking like hell. "I could have been a cop, I could have been a person with any sort of moral complex and you could have been done for right now. Put the gun away at the very least."

Alicia followed the voice's instruction and hid the gun away in her handbag.

"Good. At least you didn't shoot him out in the open- you're a beginner, but you're not an idiot - I can tell. I don't care why or why not you did it: I'm not a feelings person, I'm a reality person - you shot him and that's that. I'm in no position to make a judge of your character." And really, for some sort of intimidating, psychotic asshole, he was really quite a considerate guy. "You do need to get out of here though. Walk with me and I'll be your alibi, after all, the police are going to find this body - we just don't have to be here when they do- unless you have a death wish, like your 'friend' here, that is."

"Who the hell are you?" Alicia exhaled loudly, finally turning to face the voice that had been pretty much haunting her head for the last few minutes. "You're a girl?" She exclaimed as she turned and found herself face to face with a dark haired, tall, and fucking intimidating looking woman.

"So are you." She noted with a snort. "I'm Lindsey. You?"

"Alicia." She practically forced the word out as Lindsey grabbed her by the hand and dragged her back through the alleyway and to god knows where. "Where are we going?"

"To a friend's: I need to tell him about the fact that you shot someone- otherwise he's going to think it was one of his men, and then someone's going to get into trouble for nothing-"

"His men? What is this? The mafia?" Alicia exclaimed, the vodka beginning to wear off for the most part, and now reality seemed so fucking messed up and she soon came to realise just how out of her depth she was right now.

"It's a gang - he's a gang leader, but he's a nice guy as long as you're nice to him. I think he'll like you anyway." Lindsey added a smile to the end of her sentence, as if it was somehow going to miraculously make Alicia take her mind off the unavoidable reality of what had just occurred. "Why did you shoot that guy? Was he a particularly psycho ex-boyfriend or something?"

"No, I didn't- I didn't even know him... I just... I felt like it... I was a bit drunk earlier today and I made a plan and my head was all adrenaline and nerves and now I'm all panic and mistake, and fuck- I killed someone, Lindsey- I-" Lindsey cut her off, preferably before she started crying, because she really did not feel like dealing with that right now.

"It's fine. He was probably an asshole - well, we'll find out when his death gets broadcast on the news anyway- don't worry, if you don't have a criminal record, it's practically impossible that you'll be caught if you don't even know the guy. That's why psychopaths often avoid being caught for lengthy periods of time: the police think logically, the look for motives, but psychopaths don't kill with motives, they don't kill with reason, they don't kill with emotion, and they don't kill like humans. It's quite clever, actually." Lindsey flashed Alicia an 'I'm not a psychopath, I promise' smile with that, which really wasn't helping matters in the slightest.

"Are you calling me a psychopath?" Alicia asked, eyes wide.

"Hardly." Lindsey almost scoffed at her statement. "You have regret, you're a mess, you're nervous - it's emotion everywhere with you, but whatever, I like that, I like you, Alicia. I'm not a psychopath, either, I just work with a lot of them."

"Work?" Alicia couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that.

"I'm a lawyer, specifically the lawyer for associates of the guy I'm taking you to meet - Pete Wentz. I'm a pretty good lawyer as well - I basically get whatever I want as long as these guys don't go to prison. Pete's a nice guy, really." And that fucking smile really was not helping.

"Isn't that corrupt?" Alicia asked, trying not to let her jaw drop so far it would completely disconnect from her face entirely.

"You just shot someone. The only thing you care about now is the hope that I don't have to be your lawyer." And with that, Lindsey winked, unlocking the backdoor to a rather inconspicuous building and gesturing Alicia inside.

"Is this like some sort of gang hideout, because, it doesn't really look like one, I-" Alicia was cut off.

"No, this is Pete Wentz's house." Lindsey finished for her, and almost as if on cue, a particularly emo guy, dressed in all black made his way into the kitchen that Lindsey had Alicia had just made their way into.

"Now, I'm going to ask this before it gets awkward later." Pete ignored Lindsey completely and turned to Alicia. "Are you a prostitute?"

"What?" Her eyes practically popped out of their sockets as she blushed a terrible shade of tomato red.

"Okay, I'll take that as a no - no offense intended." Pete shrugged it off, finally deciding to acknowledge Lindsey. "How are we, Miss Ballato?"

"Mmm... I was on my way here anyway, but I found Alicia here - saw her shoot a guy dead in the front of the alleyway. It was kind of impressive and really quite badass, but that's going to be problematic for you, isn't it?" Lindsey made her way into the actual kitchen part of the room, rummaging around in the cupboards and pulling out a pack of chocolate digestive biscuits, before making her way back across the room to Alicia.

"Kudos to you, Alicia. Seriously congrats - killing someone isn't easy, and you kind of look like someone with moral values so I'm pretty sure he deserved it." Pete added with a shit eating grin, and really, just how relaxed everyone seemed to be about the guy she'd just killed was really starting to creep her out a little. "I'll blame it on whoever pisses me off next - don't worry."

Lindsey sat down at the table, gesturing for Alicia to do the same, and offering her a biscuit from the packet.

"Do I not get a biscuit?" Pete exclaimed, utterly horrified at the fact that Lindsey had thought to offer him one first: nevermind the traumatised girl they'd just met who was convinced that she'd just ruined her life, Pete just knew he was always far more important.

Lindsey rolled her eyes as he sat down, passing the packet in his direction. "You're like a two year old, serious - how the fuck are you a gang leader? And how the fuck haven't you even been stabbed once yet."

"Because unlike other people, Bert McCracken, I actually ensure that people get the drugs I owe them."

"Oh, you're a drug dealer as well - fantastic." Alicia exclaimed, shaking her head as she came to accept just how fucked she was right now.

"Would you like anything?" Pete asked with a smirk, and gaining a slap from Lindsey in response.

"I'd like some form of alcohol if possible- actually, screw that- I need some form of alcohol right now, or I'm really going to end up dying."

"That'd be my pleasure-" Pete grinned, getting up and making his way over to the alcohol cupboard, and grabbing the strongest thing he could find within the first few seconds of looking, because it was Pete, and he wasn't actually going to put more than the minimal amount of effort into anything ever.

"More like an excuse for you to drink." Lindsey corrected him, rolling her eyes, but making no further comment, and definitely not trying to stop him, because with someone as stubborn as Pete Wentz, there really was no point.

"It's only polite." Pete corrected her with a smirk, and god, he was far too fucking proud of himself for that one, without a doubt. "You drinking with us, Lindsey, or are you going to be a responsible asshole?"

"Pete, it's like two in the afternoon." She attempted to stop him for the final time, but of course, this was Pete Wentz and there's no stopping him.

"I’m getting a headstart- anyway, you know, Alicia, I'm really quite disappointed that you're not a prostitute: no one's heard anything from Iero for days now." Pete dropped a minor bombshell, well for Alicia, as he poured the three of them a drink, before sitting down again, and then downing the majority of his drink in one go.

"I heard there's some other dude who got all possessive other him, but for then on? Fuck knows - I just hope he's alright, he's a nice guy - in comparison to everyone else you have sex with." Lindsey finished with a shrug as Alicia continued to stare between the two of them, struck in a horrible state of silence.

"He's a good fuck, as well - actually deserves what he gets paid-"

"Yeah, I'm eating, no thanks!" Lindsey protested, groaning as she rolled her eyes at Pete.

"You're eating a biscuit." Pete reminded her: eyebrows raised.

"So? I'm still eating-"

"Is this Frank Iero?" Alicia finally managed to get the words out, biting down on her bottom lip as she looked from Pete to Lindsey and back again.

"Yeah..." Pete stuttered out, just a little puzzled at how she knew his favourite prostitute. "How do you know him?"

"He's my boyfriend's brother's boyfriend - I met him a few weeks ago at a coffee shop with my boyfriend and his brother." She explained, her eyes widening as she struggled to believe what she was hearing, and with Pete it was much the same.

"More like someone your boyfriend's brother paid to be his boyfriend." Pete scoffed with wide eyes, only for Lindsey to slap him for the second time, and for him to shut up sharpish. "So, you like... could contact him...? Find out if he's okay and what's up?"

"I don't have his number, but I have my brother's boyfriend's - Gerard. I have his number, I could try and ask him or get Frank to talk if you want?" And from the look on Pete's face, she didn't even have to wait for him to answer before she grabbed her cellphone and began to call Gerard.

"This is ridiculous." Lindsey exclaimed, shaking her head in Alicia's direction. "You're one of the best people I've ever met, you know? Even if I didn't exactly meet you in the most conventional of ways."

"Screw conventional." Alicia smiled back at her, and Pete tried his best, and for once succeeded, in not making some really fucked up and awkward comment about lesbians. 

-

"Oh, I like the naked painting, it kind of adds to it, you know?" Frank gestured ridiculously with his hands as Gerard presented him with his latest masterpiece.

"Are you sure you're talking about the actual artwork here or just the fact that you look like at my ass when I paint?" Gerard asked, eyebrows raised as he tried his best to be even the slightest little bit angry at Frank Iero but soon found himself failing fucking miserably.

"Your ass is a piece of art, though, you've just got to admit." Frank winked, pulling his knees up to his chest and grinning at the artist as he tried not to just punch his boyfriend in the face. "The painting is amazing, as fucking always, you're talented, Gerard, and you're so much more than painting people's porn, you know that? You shouldn't have to even paint this shit, you should be in a national fucking gallery, dude, and not in this dump painting dicks to get by."

Gerard shrugged it off, never thinking that Frank was lying to him, but highly suspecting that the twenty four year old was just a little biased in such a judgement, after all, Gerard could paint, but he wasn't that good. "I can dream, whatever." He propped the painting up in the corner of the room and made his way back to the sofa, letting Frank using him as a human pillow, which was something, he'd kind of been forced into getting used to ever since Frank had insisted upon staying here.

"I'm serious, Gerard." Frank assured him, grabbing the artist's hand, and in turn, his attention. "You're crazy good, and you could go places with this, just without the porn, like paint pictures of dogs in parks or something, whatever."

"I can only draw the human anatomy, I reassure you of that, ask me to draw a dog or a park and there will be five year olds that could do better - I promise you." Gerard rolled his eyes, curling his fingers around Frank's palm and squeezing it a little. "I'm not that special, I fucking guarantee that."

"You are, shut up." Frank sat up at that, meeting Gerard's eyes. "You're the most important and most special person I know and I can fucking promise you that, Gerard Way. Anyway, surely you can just draw people then... people in clothes, without their genitals showing, people not having sex, people just existing, just draw people."

"Like there's anyone that's going to let me draw them, that's ridiculous, Frank, there's nothing to just people. Sex is special, it has passion and it's important, whereas, people are just people, ordinary made up people and nothing to anyone, and it's irrelevant - I don't want to just paint people... they mean nothing."

"Then paint me." Frank piped up after the dramatic silence that followed Gerard's deep and meaningful confession had passed, such a silence was of course compulsory and in no way ridiculous at all. "You can paint me. I matter to you, so it's going to matter, and it's going to mean something."

"Yeah, like you have the patience to stay still for hours so I can paint you, fucking dream on, Iero. It's a nice idea, but it's not realistic, no one wants to buy a picture of just Frank Iero-"

"Of course, no one would ever care about when I still have my clothes on. I fucking know the drill, Gerard, I'm so fucking sorry that I even suggested the idea, and I'm so fucking sorry that you just want to be stuck here being nothing forever, because I fucking, I don't fucking care-" Frank was, thankfully, cut off by the sound of Gerard's cellphone, and the twenty four year old couldn't help but glare as Gerard turned away from him to grab it from the coffee table and answer the call.

"Hello?" The call was from an unknown number, and Gerard couldn't but help feel just a little nervous, especially with this asshole that basically wanted to kill him for ever even being seen with Frank: even if neither of them had heard from the guy in a few days now, Gerard couldn't help the fact that the thought was always at the back of his mind.

"Gerard? It's Alicia, you know, Mikey's girlfriend - we met at that coffee shop, remember?" Gerard was just a little shocked to hear Mikey's girlfriend on the other end of the call, as he had no recollection of ever even giving her his phone number, but whatever, Mikey must have just given it to her.

"Yeah, is everything okay? Is Mikey alright?" He stressed his voice, as his mind began to dart from place to place with every reason as to why she could possibly be calling. Frank raised his eyebrows a little at this, having stayed silent ever since the phone had rung, and had now resorted to just sitting in the most angsty manner he could muster as he waited for Gerard to finish his phone call so he could continue screaming at him - it was just polite, really.

"Yeah, Mikey's fine, Gerard, this is about Frank... is uhh, he with you or can you like-"

"Frank?" Gerard exclaimed, meeting the twenty four year old's gaze as he spoke.

"What about me?" Frank perked up, glaring at Gerard as he moved closer to the phone, almost straining to here what the person on the over end was saying.

"Is he there with you?" Alicia asked, unable to help but wonder if it was really as Pete had said and that Frank was nothing but a pretend boyfriend to impress Mikey. "Can you put him on the phone? Tell him Lindsey wants to talk to him."

"Yeah, he's right next to me." Gerard pulled the phone away from his ear, and turned to Frank, now addressing him. "Alicia, Mikey's girlfriend, was on the phone, she says someone called Lindsey wants to talk to you."

"How the fuck does she know Lindsey?" Frank sighed out, looking between the phone and Gerard and eventually grabbing it and putting it to his ear.

"Who's Lindsey?" Gerard asked, meeting Frank's gaze with a great deal of confusion, but it was too late to even expect an answer from Frank.

"Lindsey?" He spoke into the phone, his eyes widening a little, and really, Frank was beyond nervous to even answer the phone in the first place.

"Oh, so you are alive. Wow, Frank, for fuck's sake, no one's seen you in far too long- we heard about that guy, and... I was getting worried and Pete was just getting really horny."

"Oh, well tell Pete I'm terribly sorry that I haven't been able to sleep with him recently and that I truly hope that it isn't affecting his life too much." Frank rolled his eyes, leaving Gerard to raise his eyebrows a little as he couldn't help but wonder just who this Pete was.

"Yeah, also 'boyfriend', really, Iero? Alicia says you're dating that Gerard guy, are you serious? Like, I don't mean are you in a serious relationship, but like, are you fucking shitting me here?"

"No, Lindsey, I have a boyfriend, how hard is that for you to really comprehend?"

"Well, you're you. Look, is there any chance you could get to Pete's house... I need to talk about that thing with you, and this guy that practically wants you dead... look, we can sort that out, get over here."

"Why should I? That thing, that's fucking- no, I don't want in, Lindsey, I don't want to be involved in that shit- it's illegal-"

"Frank, you're a prostitute." Lindsey reminded him.

"Yeah, but-"

"Iero, come over, I miss you. Fucking bring your boyfriend if you want, I don't care, but come over, I'll even bribe Pete not to hit on you. Say yes, please."

"Fine." Frank snapped, rolling his eyes and ending the call, handing Gerard back his cellphone.

"And what was that?" Gerard asked, eyebrows raised so high that they were higher than Pete was right now.

"We're going out, look, I'll explain on the way."

"Fine."

-


	13. The Battle Of The Emos

Needless to say, Gerard was more than a little confused as Frank dragged him towards a particularly dodgy looking house, and it really didn't help that Frank seemed to utterly refuse even the concept answering a single question: and Gerard was pummelling him with questions by the dozen.

"Gerard, please, just- just shut up, for a minute, please. This is complicated." Frank's excuse was just so out of touch with adequacy, that Gerard stopped for a minute to wonder as to whatever Frank was even trying here, and maybe that was exactly what Frank had wanted, as it certainly shut the artist up for a moment or two.

"You told me you'd explain." Gerard protested: all puppy dog eyes and smiles, but Frank wasn't interested, turning away from his boyfriend and slamming his finger down against the doorbell with enough vigour to ensure that it fucking hurt.

The loud ring seemed to silence Gerard, momentarily, at the least, so perhaps the ache in Frank's finger was worth it - it wasn't all that important, anyway: it was only his index finger, and everyone knew that the only finger Frank found any use in was his middle finger.

Within seconds, Lindsey had answered the door, shaking her head and grinning at Frank, before pulling him into a bone crushing hug without a word of warning, and leaving Gerard to stare there awkwardly as he glared in the most jealous manner he could muster, and really, he was doing better than he had expected, so today was good for that, at the very least.

"Fucking hell, Frankie, I've missed you." Lindsey finally pulled away from the twenty four year old, letting him breathe, which was really quite lovely of her, because it was highly doubted that she'd be all that appreciated for killing off poor Frank Iero via the means of accidental suffocation: Gerard would definitely kill her for that, after all, it was only fair. And then, Alicia would feel left out, and probably shoot Gerard for the hell of it, and then Pete would get pissed off because he would have thought that Gerard was cute, and kill Alicia for killing him, and then Pete would just stand there looking at all his dead friends as he worked on getting himself a new lawyer, and a good one, because for a mess like that, he would need one.

Fortunately, or unfortunately - it really does relate to perspective, that didn't happen and Lindsey Ballato did eventually let go of the twenty four year old, and they carried on living, and Gerard carried on glaring, because he was really pulling off the jealous boyfriend act very well by now, and he hadn't even had all that much practice.

"This is Gerard, my boyfriend." Frank turned to the artist, introducing him to Lindsey, who was really not appreciating the way she was being glared at right now, but she'd keep it civil, for Frank's benefit, at the very least: she couldn't personally see any reason as to why Frank wanted to date this scowling emo manchild, but whatever - that wasn't her place to judge.

"Hey." Lindsey forced out a smile, leaving Gerard to copy her, but not managing a result anywhere near as good as Lindsey's.

"Hey. You're Lindsey, I guess?" Gerard sighed out, biting down on his bottom lip, and trying his best not to make eye contact with Frank, who had suspected by now that there was just some sort of unspoken feud between the two, but he still hadn't quite figured it out, and within a few minutes, it was likely that he'd even forget all about it.

"Yeah. Right, come on, inside - I told Pete not to be weird, okay, but he's had an excessive amount of alcohol already and probably twice that much now that I've left the room for a few minutes." Gerard could only shrug her comment off as he followed her into the kitchen: wondering just how much he'd want to punch Pete in the face on a scale of one to ten - right now, he was guessing at least a seven or so.

Pete and Alicia looked up as the three of them made their way into the kitchen, Frank kicking the door closed behind him with his foot, and Pete's face practically lighting up at the sight of his favourite prostitute, and with that grin, Gerard reckoned he was up to a nine on his scale right now.

Lindsey made her way over to Alicia immediately, and sat down really close to her in a totally heterosexual manner, well, at least she'd claim so, and more in aid of getting Pete to shut the hell up, than keeping closeted about her sexuality.

Lindsey Ballato wasn't straight, to say the least, but from then on, no one really knew.

"Frankie, I thought you were dead!" Pete exclaimed, grabbing Frank by the hand and pulling him over into the kitchen, as Gerard's one to ten scale snapped right in half as he went up to an eleven.

"I'm not dead, Pete." Frank grinned a little, rolling his eyes as Pete placed a can of beer into his hand. "But if you're planning on forcing a load of alcohol onto me, then pretty soon, I will be." Frank got away from Pete at the first opportunity, making his way to sit down beside Lindsey, and noticing that Gerard was still stood awkwardly near the door. "Give Gerard a beer, okay? Be nice."

"Since when did you trust Pete with the alcohol?" Alicia asked: quietly to Lindsey, again in a totally heterosexual manner. "That can't be anything but a bad idea."

"It's a social experiment - I'm seeing just how drunk he gets before he starts hitting on Frank, well, more than the flirting he does with everyone, and then I just want to see socially awkward emo trash over there punch him in the face for it, because goddamn, he looks like he wants to now." Lindsey replied in a particularly hushed tone, which Frank only caught snippets of - on one hand, he wanted to know what they were talking about, but he knew that usually it was best to just not know.

"Basically you want to indirectly punch Pete Wentz in the face?" Alicia raised her tone a little as Gerard sat down, Pete at his side, which was of course, a recipe for disaster: a battle of the gay emos.

"Excuse me?" Pete piped up, clearly having heard that.

"Nothing." Lindsey smirked, rolling her eyes, and leaving Gerard to fiddle awkwardly with the tab on his beer can: pulling it back and forward half way in a manner that was enough to drive anyone crazy.

"Gerard, stop looking like you've just been told that your whole family are dead- unless you have... which would be unfortunate, and unlikely, but- Gerard, please." Alicia finally broke the silence, and being the only one with the guts to address Gerard's awkward fidgeting: Lindsey was sitting this one out, for her social experiment, of course.

"I'm not exactly happy to watch some asshole I've never even met flirt with my boyfriend, just saying." Gerard pointed out: trying his best to look anywhere but Pete and Frank, and failing miserably.

"I flirt with everyone - I'll flirt with you if it makes you feel better, Gerardo." Pete grinned at the artist: completely oblivious as to just how close he was to being punched in the face right now.

"Gerard's fine." Gerard insisted, narrowing his eyes.

"Meh... I like Gerardo." Pete shrugged it off, leaning into Gerard's side and putting his arm around his shoulders.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Flirting with you." Pete remarked, grinning across the table at Frank, who only shook his head: not nearly as fussed as Gerard would have liked him to be, but then again, Frank knew Pete better than Gerard did: Pete meant well, and for the most part, anyway.

"I will punch you in the face." Gerard warned him, and Lindsey met Alicia's gaze, her face practically lighting up at the chance that her social experiment was succeeding.

"Like to see you try, kid. You're skinny as fuck, and you're so cute: you're all baby face and big doe eyes, and pretty pink lips - you're the least intimidating person I've ever met, but I'd totally have sex with you if it makes you feel any better-"

"Pete." Frank raised his eyebrows, drawing the line right there. "Stop it, you're being an asshole." Pete rolled his eyes in response, pulling away from Gerard, or 'Gerardo', and folding his arms like a moody toddler.

"Are you ever going to explain to me just what's going on here, Frank?" Gerard spoke up, clearly just as pissed off as Pete was as he received the news that he couldn't cuddle Gerard anymore.

"This is Lindsey, she's like my best friend, but I haven't seen her for a while, Pete's an asshole that I slept with for money sometimes, and really, he's one of the nicer guys about it, but I haven't seen either of them since I had to hide out with you due to that asshole, and they were worried about me, okay, calm down, Gerard?"

"Yeah, Frank about that dude, I can get some of my guys to sort him the fuck out, if you want, because that shit's out of order. He's an asshole." Pete offered, with probably the most mature sentence anyone had ever heard leave his lips.

"Thanks Pete."

"No problem-"

"'My guys'?" Gerard piped up, widening his eyes a little, in Pete's direction, because that sounded fucked up, to say the least.

"Oh, yeah, Pete's a gang leader." Lindsey added, practically swallowing her grin, because damn, that was just fucking funny, and the expression on Gerard's face was just priceless.

"Frank-" Gerard choked out, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets at this point. "A gang?"

"Gerard, I'm a fucking prostitute - get your head together, and anyway, it's not as if you're exactly all that respectable, you paint dicks and nudes for a living - get over yourself." Frank rolled his eyes, pulling his knees up to his chest.

"Seriously?" Lindsey's eyes widened at that: having expected Gerard to work in like a store or something, and that Frank had met him buying cigarettes or something else pathetically Frank Iero esque.

"Could you paint me?" Pete's answer was of course the best one, in everyone except Gerard's eyes, that is.

"He's really good, like seriously, he's a fucking talented painter, like he could be famous and shit, and still he's insistent upon wasting his life away painting cock." Frank addressed everyone else, leaving Gerard to scowl to himself in a totally edgy, angsty emo manner.

"Am I the only normal one here?" Alicia piped up, grinning a little.

"You shot a dude like an hour ago, Alicia." Lindsey reminded her, leaning into her side a little, again, in a totally heterosexual manner, because what, lesbians? What do you mean lesbians? Lesbians don't exist, surely?

"Wait, what?" Gerard exclaimed, ready to slam his head through the table at this point.

"It's okay, Gerardo, she's not going to shoot you-"

"Fuck off, Pete. No thanks. No thanks, Pete." Gerard turned to Frank, his eyes wide with something not far off fear. "Come on, Frank, tell me that you know this is fucked up."

"It's not my business - I can't judge her for it." Frank shrugged it off, resting his head on Lindsey's shoulder.

"Why are you all so accepting of murder, what the fuck? That's- illegal." Gerard exclaimed, and almost as if he'd completely forgotten about all the pills he took daily, and every ounce of weed he'd smoked in his life, oh yeah, and the fact that he was dating a prostitute.

"As I said, I'm in a gang... it's quite normal-"

"Gerard, I don't give a fuck about the law - there are places where you can get shot for being gay, so shut the fuck up and look at yourself: half the things you do on a regular basis are illegal, and being a prostitute, I'm one of them."

"But you shot someone, and what's Mikey going to say-" Gerard stuttered out, still wide eyed and panicking in a room of calm, slightly drunk people.

"Mikey isn't going to find out, unless you want him to find out that you paint cock and that you're dating a prostitute." Alicia snapped, gritting her teeth as she came to realise that she'd forgotten all about Mikey, and god, Mikey Way and their house together and making pancakes in her underwear seemed to be worlds away.

"This is fucked up."

"The whole world is fucked up, Gerard, burst your fucking bubble and grow the fuck up."

-

And Gerard was the perfect picture of angst: curled up in the corner away from everyone and the drink and the laughter - he was the friend reluctantly dragged along to the party and then soon abandoned by the friend that had brought them there in the first place.

But of course, Gerard had missed that teenage innocence by far too many years now, and it was really starting to show. Perhaps Frank was right, and perhaps he should never have stormed off, because then Frank would at least be discreet when it came to flirting with fucking Pete Wentz, whereas now, Gerard could hear them from where he was sat, and god, it fucking sucked.

And right now, Gerard felt like fucking killing someone, so maybe he ought to apologise to Alicia, and perhaps punch Mikey in the face for whatever the fuck he'd done to bring her here, and in consequence Frank, and then himself, because fuck, it fucking sucked, and somehow Mikey had managed to stay so far out of this mess and out in the picture painted happiness of a 'normal' life.

Gerard was never exactly the most conventional of people, and he most certainly wasn't an office worker by any means, but this life was everything he had, and still everything he hated.

And Frank was beautiful and laughing and everything he didn't deserve, and maybe, just maybe, karma had finally kicked in - not that Gerard believed in karma, at all. He reckoned he didn't even believe in anything anymore.

It was depressing and he hadn't the pills on hand to put his sorrows on silent and turn off reality for a second or two, because reality: Gerard was living the picture painted lie as much as Mikey was, and it was nothing but a matter of appearances that separated the two of them, and Gerard hated everything that had brought him to that conclusion.

Hate was certainly a strong word: one used too much but never enough, and Gerard's head didn't stop spinning after minutes of in and out breathing and maybe he'd never be okay again, and maybe that was an understatement, but maybe it wasn't: maybe Gerard was dying and soon Pete Wentz would find nothing more than a corpse sat on the bottom stair of his staircase, and at least as Frank and Pete went up to Pete's bedroom, that would make them stop and think.

Perhaps Gerard thought about dying far much more than he should, but perhaps there was comfort in nothingness, especially when everything was full on and killing him all the time: perhaps he just need a break, a less permanent death, and that was exactly where the pills fell into place, and that was exactly when his empty pockets began to burn holes in his sides.

And he wasn't sure whether he needed Frank or just the distraction: perhaps he was just the new drug - the new obsession for his obsessive head - a new way to bide away his time as the clock struck down to zero, but never quite made it, and really, the possible was becoming all the more likely by the minute.

"I'm sorry." He jumped out of his thoughts with far too much vigour: praying for the voice to be Frank, even if he knew by its feminine qualities that it most certainly wasn't, and he wasn't a hopeless dreamer, Gerard Way was just pathetic - at least he did that well: his talents were few and far between, so even ones of the least credibility ought to be celebrated.

"Lindsey?" Gerard was more than a little shocked to see the person who'd done nothing but whisper to Alicia about him all the time before him - the only one with the slightest regard for his emotions, and really, Gerard was more than a little butt hurt that it wasn't Frank.

"Gerard." She nodded, sitting down beside him with very little emotion to show for herself and her actions, leaving Gerard hopeless and hoping that somehow she'd wave a magic wand and make everything okay.

"Why are you here?" Gerard found himself breaking the silence, and really, this was not how it was supposed to go, but fuck it, this was the way it was, and he'd have to just grow the fuck up and deal with it, as he'd been told.

"Because you're sad, and Frank's being a stubborn asshole about it because he's no good with feelings, and Pete's far too drunk to even stand up anymore, and there's not a hope that he's going to point out Frank's wrongs here." Lindsey rolled her eyes, avoiding Gerard's gaze and all emotional connections, because this wasn't like that - this was just her making sure that Frank didn't get away with being such an asshole, and mainly due to the fact that if he started being such an asshole to Gerard, then eventually he'd be the same with her, and perhaps Lindsey valued the asshole just a little bit too much.

"Okay." Gerard bit his lip: unsure of what to make of Lindsey and the way he couldn't even see straight, and the way he couldn't even remember the pills he'd taken when he'd gotten up this morning and as to whether they were the right ones or the ones that voice at the back of his mind directed him to.

The voice was getting louder today, and it was getting harder to ignore the longer he went on with it.

"You're overreacting, I think, but so's Frank - you're both being idiots and that's typical, because boys are idiots: I would know, I spend far too much time with them, especially Pete Wentz. And let me tell you, Gerard, Frank doesn't hate you - he means well, but he doesn't take well to emotions and people and complicated things and he cares about Pete, don't get me wrong, but he doesn't care about Pete in the same way he cares about you."

"And how would you know?" Gerard choked out, rolling his eyes: utterly unconvinced, and for once sharing an opinion with the voice at the back of his head, and that was that Lindsey Ballato was wrong, perhaps not a liar, but wrong nonetheless.

"Because when he was fucked up and needed somewhere to hide from someone out to get him - when he needed protecting and needed to feel safe and happy: he went to you and not Pete. Damn, I would have thought he would have gone to me, but he met you, and that changed: Frank and I are close friends, but it's evident you mean more to him than I do, and I'm jealous, to say the least, but I'm happy, because he's happy: you make him happy."

"He certainly doesn't make me happy with what he's doing right now."

"Well, go back and tell him so, and get him alone to talk to him, and if he calls you an asshole, kiss him until he shuts up, and if he tries to apologise, kiss him harder." Lindsey smiled, meeting Gerard's gaze for the first time. "Frank makes out like he's a complicated person, but he's not, not really: he thinks in simple terms - it's love and hate, and he's all hormones and not enough thought and emotion. You're thinking too deeply - you're an artist, of course, you are, everything's complex with you, and you think that everything means something, but it doesn't: Frank's flirting with Pete, because Pete's flirting with him, and he's not stopping because you're letting him do so."

"So you want me just to grab him and kiss him?" Gerard raised his eyebrows a little at that.

"Yeah, preferably not in front of everybody, but yeah, he's kind of tipsy anyway, so he'll kiss you back regardless of whether he's pissed off at you, and when he's sobered up, just convince him that you never even argued in the first place."

"That sounds an awful lot like lying."

"Yeah, it does."

-


	14. Pete Wentz The Number One Expert Flirt

Lindsey's advice was far more successful than Gerard could have ever anticipated and soon enough, he found himself back at his apartment, and not only kissing Frank's lips, but putting his lips to good use elsewhere too.

And maybe, just maybe, even if Gerard wasn't supposed to the whore here, there was nothing he could say that would disprove the fact that he absolutely loved getting down on his knees for Frank Iero. And let's just say that Frank also appreciated the gesture, because there was really no other way to put it that didn't require extreme degrees of obscenity.

Not that obscenity was necessarily a bad thing, and this blowjob was proof of that: the proof within the way Frank was all held back hitched breaths and moans - little noises, quieter than Gerard would have expected him to be in relation to the fact that they were alone, well alone in a flat where the door didn't lock, but whatever, they were alone for now at the moment.

But this wasn't anything to do with Gerard being bad or anything, this was more to do with Frank than it ever was Gerard, because like this he didn't have to act: he didn't have to put it on and he didn't have to moan extra loud when it was nothing more than mediocre - he wasn't being paid to do this: he was doing it because he wanted to, and it was entirely different.

Frank didn't quite understand the meaning behind the phrase 'like he was paid to do it', because Frank knew more than anyone than when something became work: monotonous and forced, regardless of quality or emotion, just compulsory - it lost all enjoyment it could ever have, and the relief and break from that was a certain kind of heaven, and Frank was satisfied with nothing but relaxed, happy little moans, and Gerard seemed to be far too preoccupied with Frank's dick to really pay all that much attention to the noises coming from Frank's lips.

Gerard's hands dug tightly into Frank's lips: steadying himself around Frank, as the artist was shaking a little: a mix of anxiety and being really fucking turned on, he guessed. Frank was usually a fan of hair pulling and forcing Gerard's down onto him and being in control, but Frank was tipsy and floating as his hands stretched out against the wall behind him, letting Gerard take control and push him against the plaster with every thrust.

This was different, of course, because he trusted Gerard, he loved Gerard, and the main thing was that Frank's head had something else to focus on other than fifty dollars on the dresser.

It wasn't that Frank didn't like his job: it was certainly preferable to wasting his life away in an office as he filed away things he could never even begin to understand, and answered phone calls with the same sentence: lifeless and almost programmed into his head until he finally retired, and then it'd only be a few more years until he died, and that was that: everything.

Frank would much rather be paid to get fucked a few times and then do whatever the fuck he wanted with the rest of his life, especially if that included doing Gerard Way.

"Gerard-"Frank jumped back into reality: mildly unaware of what he was even doing and what he was even saying: everything was about his dick and just what Gerard was doing to it. "Fuck... I'm gonna, I-" Frank bit down on his bottom lip, pushing Gerard off his dick with all of the self-control in the world.

"Frank?" Gerard asked, pouting up at the twenty four year old: a little disappointed, because maybe, Gerard liked sucking dick far more than he'd ever care to admit, especially when Frank Iero's dick was involved.

"I can't come when I've just left you on your knees sucking my dick: doing everything for me, because as hot as that is, I don't want to neglect you like that." Frank finally managed to stand up probably: having supported his weight on the wall entirely for far too long now - he was fucking numb and it was Gerard's fucking fault.

"I like sucking your dick." Gerard protested, smiling up at Frank like he was made for nothing more than being the world's sluttiest whore.

"I noticed." Frank smirked, rolling his eyes a little. "Come on, get up." He gestured to Gerard, who shrugged it off and climbed to his feet, stumbling a little as he did so, having been down on his knees for far too long entirely, but then again, it really wasn't like anyone was complaining.

"What's happening?" Gerard asked, following Frank as the younger made his way through the flat, and really just away from the spot that they'd been in previously: literally about ten centimetres away from the front door: the door that didn't lock.

"Bedroom." Frank didn't explain further: he didn't need to, and Gerard didn't expect him to, only grinning a little, because hell, if Frank flirting with Pete ensured that he ended up fucking Frank, Pete could fucking marry Frank for all he cared.

Gerard closed the bedroom door behind them, watching as Frank pulled his jeans and boxers off: his shirt long gone, and now lying somewhere on the hallway floor for them to find a few days little with awkward smiles and blushes.

"Are you going to get your clothes off too, or just watch me, huh?" Frank raised his eyebrows in Gerard's direction, leaning back against the wardrobe, watching Gerard pull his shirt over his head from across the room. "You're beautiful, you know? You're a work of art - I can see why you're such a good artist - you're art yourself."

"I remember you once said something about hating pretentious people, especially art and artists." Gerard mused, smirking a little as he discarded the rest of his clothes on his bedroom floor.

"You may have changed my mind on that one, Gerard Way." Frank stepped forward, grabbing his boyfriend by the hand and pushing him down onto the bed.

"Can't I just make you come- you're so hard- I... I... want to." Gerard choked out under the two strong hands pinning his shoulders back down against the mattress.

"And I want to make you come, so how are we going to decide, huh?" Frank raised his eyebrows, pulling away a little, and just watching the cute little puzzled expression upon Gerard's face.

"Rock, paper, scissors?" 

"Or I could just make you come before you even have a choice." Frank suggested, pushing Gerard up the bed and spreading his legs like he was nothing, and really, there was no denying the fact that Gerard completely fucking melted into Frank's touch.

"H-How will you do that?" Gerard choked out, blushing like hell itself, because, well, this was Frank Iero and if he wasn't blushing and completely fucking turned on by now, something had to be severely wrong with him.

"Eat you out." Frank mumbled: his voice nonchalant as he spread Gerard's legs further and pushed his face between the twenty eight year old's thighs, at first planting kisses on the pale white skin of his thighs, and having Gerard moaning already: he was far more vocal than Frank, to say the least.

"Fuck- Frank... I.. I've never done that before..." Gerard blushed, shaking a little as Frank continued to tease him: trailing kisses up and down the tender skin of his inner thighs.

"Well, that's even better." Frank grinned, pulling away just a little to make eye contact with his boyfriend.

"W-why's that?"

"Honestly, because then I don’t' have to worry about being bad because you're still going to think this is the best thing ever."

"What if I don't like it?" Gerard asked, smirking a little, and really, he just should have now that he was going to get absolutely fucking nowhere with this, but, of course, Gerard was stubborn, and nothing was stopping him from trying.

"Trust me: you will." And that was a promise made.

And a promise kept as Frank took Gerard by surprise, pressing his tongue up against Gerard's ass, feeling the younger jolt at the touch, and clenching around him, closing his legs a little, which really, Frank was having none of, and made sure Gerard was well aware of that fact and just who was in charge here as he pushed Gerard's legs apart again, his hands digging into Gerard's thighs as he held them in place, before pushing his tongue in deeper this time, feeling Gerard jolt twice as hard at the touch.

"Fuck..." He moaned aloud this time, and Frank couldn't help but smirk in response: already hard, and fucking harder from just how wonderfully Gerard was taking it. "Please."

Frank pulled away at that, just to be an asshole, and a fucking tease... to Gerard... and his asshole. "Told you that you'd like it, didn't I?"

"Yeah..." Gerard's tone was breathy and strained in consequence of just how fucking hard he was already, and really, Frank would not be wrong to say that Gerard really fucking liked this: hell, Gerard might just have a thing for this, and dear god, it was like a dream come true to Frank (the word 'come' being used rather literally, because that dream was most certainly not the only thing coming today).

Frank gave Gerard absolutely no forewarning before pressing his tongue back to Gerard's ass, pushing at Gerard's thighs as spreading him wider, allowing Frank to get his tongue in deeper, and fuck, Gerard really liked this.

He was fucking close already, and it was fucking ridiculous, and Frank loved how he could just tell, but of course, Frank fucking did this for a living: he had to know when people were about to come, but, of course, there was nothing quite like the way Gerard jerked like hell, going tense, and then shaking, before finally just letting go.

Frank grinned to himself, rubbing his hard dick against the mattress a little, because fuck, before going all out, and as deep as he could: digging deep enough into Gerard's thighs for it to hurt, but, fuck him, which was pretty much what Frank was doing right now, because damn, Gerard was going to have to deal with Frank wanting to make him come like this if it turned Frank on so much.

And let's just say that as Gerard finally let go, that he really didn't mind at all, and the fingerprints and marks they'd leave on his thighs were nothing more than memories and reminders of this and everything they were, and everything they would be.

Gerard came against his stomach, and Frank grinned, satisfied with himself and the mess he'd made, before sitting up between Gerard legs and curling a hand around his dick to finish himself off.

"Hey-" Gerard sat up, grabbing his hand and stopping him right there, and really, Frank was so hard that he was about to fucking slap him across the face with his dick for that. "I said I wanted to suck your dick until you come, and I am."

And really, Frank was in no position to stop him as Gerard pushed Frank down as his lips slid down Frank, his head bobbing up and down a little, but really, he hadn't even long enough to get a rhythm going before Frank was coming everywhere and Gerard was struggling to swallow: managing most of it, before spitting out a little into the carpet: a stain and a problem that he could worry about later, because all he knew right now was that Frank Iero was fucking beautiful, and of course that he really loved being eaten out.

"I'm sorry that I overreacted about you and Pete." Gerard's apology was late, and late enough to ensure that it didn't matter at all, but still, it was the thought that counted, surely.

"You didn't, look, I'm sorry, Pete and I- things are complicated and there's no away around the fact that Pete and I have fucked multiple times, but look-"

"Hey, if you're feeling guilt about flirting with Pete ends in you doing this, then fucking hell, Frank, go and make out with him." It was ridiculous and so was Gerard, but the twenty eight year old was still kind of caught up with the butterflies in his stomach and the tingling feeling in his body after he'd came that wouldn't go away for quite a while now, but still, it'd never ever last long enough.

"Trust me: I'd much rather make out with you."

-

Pete wasn't exactly all that opposed to Lindsey spending so much time in his house as of late, especially when she made a habit of bringing him some form of alcohol whenever he did so, and in return, Pete refrained from making any awkward lesbian comments when Alicia turned up with her.

After all, Alicia did have a boyfriend, didn't she?

But, of course, poor old Mikey Way was completely oblivious to this all, for now at the very least, that was.

However, the likelihood was that the aforementioned was going to change very soon indeed.

"More alcohol, Lindsey?" Pete asked, having not even met Lindsey's gaze as she made her way inside: having acquired her own key recently with the whole using Pete's house as a masquerade for her suspiciously homosexual activities with Alicia.

"Pete-" Lindsey shook her head firmly, leaving Pete to gasp aloud as he noticed the guy slumped against Lindsey's side.

"Who the fuck is that? And is he dead? No dead bodies in the house, Lindsey, goddamn we don't fuck with dead bodies, remember?" Pete panicked so much that he almost dropped his can of beer, and really that was a damn hell of a lot of panicking, like man, he could have been at a disco right now.

"Calm down, for fuck's sake: he's not dead, and I don't even know who he is: I just found him passed out in the alleyway next door, and I wasn't going to fucking leave him there to get stabbed by the next trigger happy girl with a gun there, am I?" Lindsey rolled her eyes, leaving Pete to watch with wide eyes as she laid the guy out onto the sofa. "He should just wake up and be alright, I guess, but..." Lindsey shrugged, as Pete made his way over to the guy who had now take up residence upon his sofa.

"He probably just got drunk and fell asleep, Lindsey: we don't need to go all super nanny on him, come on - where's the alcohol?" Pete whined like an alcoholic toddler, and really, if Lindsey didn't spend the entirety of her life not giving a single fuck, she would have been really concerned about Pete's health in general right now.

"Not everyone's you, Pete. Just leave it, and do something other than have a drink, for once, would you?" Lindsey doubted that Pete even had any more hobbies, but whatever would shut him up for a minute or two was good enough for her.

But, it seemed that the guy on Pete's sofa was intent upon waking up before Lindsey could get one moment of peace and quiet - not that she should have ever expected that by heading to Pete's house, but whatever.

"What- I-... I-" And then before anyone could even know what was happening, sofa guy was vomiting all over Pete Wentz's shiny mahogany floor.

"Fuck my life." Pete rolled his eyes, making his way into the kitchen, and grabbing... you guessed it: an orange Capri Sun. "I'm not cleaning that shit up." Pete announced as he continued to sip his Capri Sun, leaving Lindsey to shake her head and brush off any thoughts of just punching the guy right in the face - not sofa guy, but Pete, but then again, if he'd never vomited...

"Where am I?" Sofa guy's tone was groggy and very much on the same emotional level as Pete right now, who stood in the kitchen, sulking and glaring as he continued to sip his Capri Sun, just like gang leaders did, and six year olds didn't, of course. "What happened?"

"I found you passed out in an alleyway, and well, that wasn't exactly the best place to leave you... if you didn't want to be killed, that is, so I took you to Pete's house here: it's literally just next door - this isn't a kidnapping, I promise." Lindsey's 'I'm not a psychopath, I promise' impression wasn't exactly up to scratch today, it seemed.

"O-ok... I... I... don't remember... I-"

"Drugs. What were you on?" Pete was rather straight to the point, and really, that was one of the very few straight things he'd done in his life, besides his ex-girlfriend (about four years ago) that was. Pete was technically pansexual with a preference for people with dicks, but Pete Wentz didn't tend to get into technicalities, so he was attracted to whoever the fuck he was - end of.

"I... uhh... I wasn't..." Sofa guy blushed a bright shade of 'guilty red', and Lindsey couldn't help but chuckle at that.

"He does more drugs than he can count, just fucking answer the goddamn question." Lindsey rolled her eyes a little, getting up and beginning to clean up the sick (reluctantly so, of course) after she'd concluded that sofa guy wasn't going to just die at any moment.

"Maybe some coke." Sofa guy finally answered with a blush: this wasn't particularly something that he totally people about, in fact, it was kind of his biggest secret, but it seemed that perhaps it wasn't entirely that secret anymore.

"Cool. Do you have a name or is it just 'that coke addict who puked all over my floor'?" Pete asked, finishing his Capri Sun and sitting down on the sofa opposite the one the sofa guy was sat upon: Lindsey having finished cleaning up the sick and glaring at Pete as she sat down beside the sofa guy.

"Uhh..."

"I'm Lindsey - that's Pete: he's an asshole. I apologise in advance for anything and everything he does." Lindsey rolled her eyes, smiling a little at the guy in an attempt to make him look slightly less mortified.

"Mikey." He finally answered, forcing a smile that wasn't even the tiniest bit convincing. "I need to get back home before my girlfriend comes home though... she doesn't know about... well... no one does... I'm not really a... drugs person... I... I'm just-"

"Depressed as fuck and thinking what the hell." Pete finished for him, leaving Mikey just a little lost for words. "I've been there: granted, I was sixteen at the time, but I know the feeling, and trust me, drugs made my life so much better-"

"I'm not sure that's entirely true." Lindsey protested, narrowing her eyes a little in Pete's direction.

"Okay, it was extensive therapy and getting out of school and into college, and then doing more, better drugs with my friends... but... in the long run... it's the same thing, isn't it?"

Lindsey shook her head. "He was passed out on the floor outside - you are not suggesting that he continues to do this shit. Do you want him to puke on your floor again?"

"I'm pretty sure there are other places for him to puke-"

"No, Pete, I will personally ensure that he pukes nowhere but your living room floor, trust me."

"Do... I... I not get a say in where I puke?" Mikey piped up, blushing a little as he asked.

"I would say no, because I don't know you and you just ruined my floor, but... you're cute... so tell me, Mikey, where would you like to puke?"

And you knew it was fucking tragic when Pete Wentz started involving vomit in his pick up lines, but then again, Pete Wentz's pick up lines were just tragic regardless of content.

-


	15. No Homo Means I Love You In Fuckboy

And Mikey Way knew that this was nothing but his fault, but his head and his heart seemed to be in two entirely different dimensions right now, so surely it couldn’t be his fault, could it?

But it was, and he was unfortunate in the reality that there was no one to drag him back down to earth as he slammed the door behind him: oblivious to cold, even in only a shirt and the pair of jeans that he'd worn the past three weeks straight now.

He was something like drunk, and something like stoned too, but he wasn't really either, just in between, and far too okay with that fact, because he was dying inside, but he couldn't quite feel it, and Alicia was nowhere in sight, and it was all perfectly okay as long as he could get his head to stop spinning for more than a second at a time.

He couldn't.

It was tragic, but he got over it.

He got over everything: his life was a collage and a compilation of could have beens and should haves, but he had no regrets - none but that, anyway. And his head was spinning, and he was crazy, and it was far too dark for him to even recognise his surroundings now.

Alicia was 'working late', and it was something close to midnight now, and Mikey was out in the part four streets down: stumbling and running like he was being chased by some sort of invisible being until he found a bench and threw himself onto it: the pain rendered irrelevant as he set his eyes upon the horizon - moonlight crawling up from the horizon and into the inky blackness beyond, but still, there was a definite absence of light, and it reflected the absence of sanity in Mikey's head.

Coke did bad things to bad people: playing on guilt and everything less, and Mikey felt like skin and bones and veins: addiction full through, and a nosebleed that had stained his upper lip that he hadn't quite cared to wipe off.

He was a perfect picture of a fuck up, and really, that fuck up brother looked like a saint next to the crack addict stumbling through the local park in the middle of the night, but he kept seeing shadows and shapes in the dark, and he remained far too on edge to even consider reality and the how the world was affecting him.

Alicia seemed almost unreal: a missed call in his pocket, and a worry pushed to the back of his mind, because she'd fix this eventually: he knew she would, because Alicia wasn't stupid and Alicia would find out and Alicia would scream at him for hours, until his ears started to bleed, but he'd be okay.

He'd always be 'okay'.

Mikey Way was nothing but 'okay'.

Okay said in a condensing tone by an elementary school teacher in relation to the awful fuss kicked up by a bruise on a knee. You're okay.

And the words echoed in his head as they slowly started to mean something, but as to what, Mikey was unsure yet, and perhaps he just didn't want to find out, because perhaps, he just didn't need to know.

After all, there was an awful lot that Mikey Way didn't know, and a perfect example of that was the fact that Alicia wasn't working late at all, but found herself at Pete's again, with Lindsey, of course, and they were having far gayer conversations than Mikey would have ever liked to no, but he didn't, so that was okay: temporarily, at the very least, but with the coke and the vomit in a trashcan several hundred metres behind him, Mikey was very much living in the temporary: living without a single though to his actions and the repercussions they inevitably held.

Another thing that Mikey Way didn't know was the fact Pete Wentz had grown tired of Lindsey abusing his life to talk to Alicia, and not even bring him beer for the trouble - it was something about her starting to worry about just how much he was drinking, but Pete didn't care, and it was out the backdoor, and walking for at least twenty minutes across town, and a park he didn't frequent visiting, and some raving lunatic curled up on a bench.

Pete almost found himself laughing as his feet dragged him down the path towards what he didn't know was Mikey Way, but he stopped, meeting Mikey's gaze and raising his eyebrows a little as the 'stranger' waved at Pete, and Pete recognised him immediately.

"You threw up on my floor." It wasn’t exactly the most polite he could have been, but he didn't exactly care, and throwing up on someone's floor wasn't exactly considered polite either, so maybe they were just about even now.

Pete sat down beside Mikey, giving him a moment to recognise the guy as the guy whose floor he'd thrown up on: it took Mikey a minute, and with his head in this state, it wasn't exactly unexpected, but he got there eventually, and that counted for something.

"I threw up on your floor." Mikey repeated Pete... Mikey repeted, and Pete nodded, raising his eyebrows at Mikey a little. "I'll try not to throw up again, but I-"

"You're fucked up, and maybe Lindsey's right in that you shouldn't be overdoing it like this, but-" And that was something that Pete Wentz never thought he'd ever say, but it seemed as if Mikey Way fucked with his head and even unintentionally so.

"But what? My head's spinning and I can't remember who I am, and this is great, and you're great and-" Mikey's words seemed to leave his lips at a million miles a minute: almost tripping over them as they did. "I like it like this: I like the floaty feeling and I like the shadows that come alive, and she matters, but she's not here to make it okay. She works late all the time..."

"Who?" Pete found himself asking, although he damn well knew that with Mikey in this state, it really was anything but a good idea, but he was already fucked up for this guy, so surely it couldn't get all that much worse, could it?

"My girlfriend." Mikey leaned onto Pete as he said so, Pete moving slightly so that Mikey's head fell into his lap in a totally heterosexual gesture, but Mikey was far too fucked up to care, and Pete was totally fine with ensuring that he took full advantage of that. "She's... works late... I don't see her much anymore... recently. I want a drink."

"I have water in my bag-"

"I want a drink." Mikey clarified, and really, Pete almost felt disappointed in himself, because this was the kind of thing that he was supposed to get.

"Me too." Pete admitted, exhaling loudly as his gaze met the horizon, and Mikey leaned into him further: Pete was screwed. "I'm a fucking mess, dear god, but... whatever... hey... fuck it."

"Fuck it." Mikey repeated, grinning a little as he did so. "I like that. I like you. Sorry about puking on your floor - I didn't mean to, it was-"

"I get it." Pete cut him off: doing his best to avoid some sort of awkwardly detailed description of Mikey's thought process as he vomited on Pete's floor. "It's okay."

"I'm okay." Mikey laughed as he said it, grinning up at the stars like a mad man. "I'm okay." He repeated, his tone only more dramatic. "I'm always okay - it's okay."

"You're not okay." And Pete just told Mikey what he needed to hear: Mikey stopping for a moment, and meeting Pete's gaze before he continued: his words heavy in his chest and bearing far too much meaning in general.

"Yeah." Mikey let out a sigh, and it was a pathetic sigh, but it didn't matter, because Pete thought he was cute, even when he was having some sort of existential crisis. Pete was kind of ridiculous like that, but Mikey was too fucked up to care, and they worked like that, they really did.

"I wish you were okay." And Pete meant it, even if he found himself hopeless, and a little tipsy as he said it, but it was meaningful, nonetheless. "I really do: you don't deserve to be such a mess."

"Make me okay. Make it better, I... I don't know how, but you... you got out of this mess and I need your help and I need you, and it's the middle of the night and my girlfriend’s going to be home by now and she's called me at least six times now, but I-"

"Pick up." Pete shook Mikey off his lap, forcing him to sit up. "I can't magically fix you: pick up the phone... she's going to be worried... for all she knows, you could be dead right now, and if you keep fucking yourself up like this, you're not exactly that far from it."

"I can't explain this to her, because I- I can't... she... she doesn't want a boyfriend who's a pathetic waste away addict, and I can't tell her, I just have to wait this out and see what happens... maybe it will get better by itself."

"She doesn't want a dead boyfriend either." Pete stressed his point, grabbing Mikey's attention as he did so. "It doesn't get better by itself, and I know that- look... come on... just text her... tell her you're safe... tell her that you're at a friends."

"But I'm not: I'm at a park and that would be lying!" Mikey's eyes widened a little at that, and really Pete wondered just how the hell he could possibly deal with this guy, but still, despite that mess, he still damn wanted to: Mikey Way was really something indeed.

"And telling her that you don't have a coke addiction would also be lying, so make your mind up, Mikey, come on... look... I let you crash at mine tonight, but tonight only and tomorrow you have to go home and face her and try your best not to fuck up again. She loves you, okay?"

"You don't even know her." Mikey grumbled into Pete's side as he pulled his cellphone out and did as Pete told him to.

"Who wouldn't love you?" Pete expressed another perfectly heterosexual statement, but Mikey didn't quite seem to appreciate the full extent of the rampant homosexual subtext.

"I don't think she's staying late at work." Mikey pocketed his phone, and with Pete's help, got up off the bench. "I thinking she's lying to me... I don't know what she's doing... she could be joining the circus, but... she... I don't know... I just want it to be okay. Pete, please, make it okay."

"Mikey, I'm not your fairy godmother... I can't just wave a fucking wand... I don't even have a fucking wand-"

"Wave your dick." Mikey giggled as the two made their way out of the park and in the vague direction of Pete's house, leaving the more emo of the two to just hope that Lindsey and Alicia had left by now, otherwise this would raise some seriously awkward and homosexual questions that Pete didn't exactly want to answer.

Of course, though, Alicia and Lindsey were long gone, and Alicia was even back at home now: worrying about where the hell her boyfriend was, and freaking the fuck out about the text that made just about as much sense as the fact that Mikey would actually want to voluntarily leave the house did in the first place.

"I'm not waving my dick at you." Pete shook his head, laughing a little, finding it nothing but utterly ridiculous, but with Mikey in the state that he was, he thought it best to confirm the fact that there would be absolutely no dick waving involved, and for a handful of very good reasons too.

"Whoever said I wanted you to?" Mikey's words were exaggerated and just a little slurred, and Pete definitely didn't still find him cute, even if he was extremely annoying, he was cute nonetheless.

"You did. About ten seconds ago." Pete reminded him, shaking his head firmly as he found himself supporting most of Mikey's head as the taller of the two was practically walking into him right now.

"Oh okay." And Mikey was strangely accepting of that, and really, Pete could have told him that his name was Gregory and he owned seventeen monkeys, and Mikey probably would have still believed him.

Which of course, was just as perfectly heterosexual as Pete inviting Mikey over to stay the night was.

-

Frank was a terrible liar, but only when it mattered, and with Gerard, well, it always did.

Damn Pete Wentz for ever getting drunk, and damn Pete Wentz for every single fucking drunk text and every single piece of information that Frank should never dream of knowing, even less Gerard, and fuck, Frank couldn't look his boyfriend straight in the eyes right now, because damn, he knew, and he fucking shouldn't.

And damn Mikey Way for his coke addiction, and for the mumblings late at night: the words that meant the world to Pete, and were nothing but an absent minded work of Mikey's subconscious: the secrets and the clues pointed right to Alicia's identity, because maybe Pete should have cared more about just letting Mikey hang up on his girlfriend like that.

And it should have been Lindsey that Pete told, and it should have made sense, and Pete shouldn't have been too drunk to even remember it in the morning, let alone what happened between Mikey and him.

Because like that, this was a burden Frank was left to bear, as Mikey left Pete's house the following morning, having deleted the messages from Pete's phone: left unlocked and open on the messages screen many hours later, and with Mikey's luck, Pete's head was a sieve, and he was none the wiser by morning.

He had a vague memory of Mikey being here, but with the lack of evidence towards his presence, it just felt an awful lot like a dream at this point, and with a morning can of beer, dreams didn't seem to mean all that much anymore, but across town, Frank lay in bed, his eyes fixated upon the ceiling as he attempted to rid the information from his mind, but of course, to no avail.

Frank didn't have the same talent of idiocy that Pete possessed, and he doubted even a brain transplant would fully remove the knowledge from his mind.

He'd been laid here for hours now, very much awake, and anxious to hell: the bed beside him was empty and he could hear Gerard in the next room, painting or something - he usual got up early with inspiration or whatever, and that was something that Frank had found himself, albeit reluctantly, adjusting to over the course of the past weeks.

But he couldn't face Gerard and the world outside this bed, and the text from Pete that explained everything - the text that Mikey had deleted, and the text that Pete had forgotten, and not one million morning calls to Pete demanding answers provided Frank with a single ounce of clarity whatsoever.

He couldn't look his boyfriend in the eyes, and just let it slip: he couldn't just be like, 'oh hey, your brother's a cocaine addict, and he's going to end up killing himself, and also he may or may not have slept with Pete Wentz last night - I'm unclear on that, but I'm unclear on everything'. Gerard would freak, and things would go to shit, and Frank found comfort in the status quo of the two of them, and dating, and this flat, and Gerard's art, and coffee in the mornings, and fewer clients, and always out of Gerard's way... it was discreet and it was in control, and sex with Gerard was always enough.

Frank liked this... he liked being domestic, and being happy, and he liked the steady relationship and making shitty overcooked pasta whilst following a recipe off his cellphone for his boyfriend in the evenings, and he liked seeing the rare occasions that Gerard fell asleep first: usually only when he hadn't sleep the night before, because otherwise the artist lay awake for many hours after Frank had fallen asleep, just thinking, just peaceful, just breathing, but on those rare occasions, Frank liked seeing Gerard so happy and so cute, just curled up at Frank's side.

And it almost felt normal, because without the story behind the twenty dollar bills at the back of his wallet, and the real content of the little pills on the bedside table, and the little ziplock bag of dope in the chest of drawers on Gerard's side of the bed, Frank almost felt like he'd succeeded in life, like he'd fitted the stereotype, and Frank almost felt like he'd grown up to be who his parents wanted him to be, and fuck, he hated that.

Of course, the whole gay thing wasn't exactly part of his parent's dream for his life, but that wasn't rebellion, that was just who he was: Frank wanted control and he wanted to rid this thought from his head.

He didn't want to know, because he didn't want Gerard to worry, and he didn't want things to fall apart, he didn't want to go back to his apartment (he couldn't, anyway, people had taken it over weeks ago) and he didn't want to go back to ten clients a day, and he didn't want to go back to reality so soon: this was of course, temporary, it was too good to be true, and it was the kind of truth that had Frank sick to his stomach when it was over.

It was something he never should have had, but did, and now it was something he could never dream of letting go of, and now it was what had him take a pill from the box on the bedside table: he swallowed it dry, Frank was good at swallowing, after all.

And like this, he could dream of forgetting.

And he stumbled as he pulled himself out of bed, but he didn't care, and he tried to clear his mind as he grabbed a shirt (probably Gerard's) from the floor, and it didn't work, and again, he tried not to care, but again, that didn't work, and Frank Iero was a stumbling mess as he made his way into the living room, and Gerard...

Gerard wasn't painting.

Gerard was fucking jacking off.

Goddamn it, Gerard was getting off, without him, and fuck, Frank wasn't happy: he felt left out, and betrayed, second best to Gerard's hand, but of course, that wasn't true, but how Frank's head was spinning in the moment wasn't helping at all.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Frank spat at his boyfriend: sprawled out across the sofa with his clothes long gone and his hand wrapped tightly around his cock. "Where am I in this? Why the fuck would you need to get off when you've got a perfectly good boyfriend right here?"

"Y-you... y-you were asleep..." Gerard stumbled out, his eyes widening as he pulled his hand away from his cock, his cheeks turning a horrible shade of red.

"I wasn't." Frank promised him, watching as Gerard got up and made an awkward grab for his shirt, just to feel a little less awkward than having a naked argument with his boyfriend would make him. "Is it to do with what I do? Because goddamn, you know- I do this to get by, and you, you're no better, so fucking shut the fuck up-"

"Frank, are you high- I.. I...?" 

"Yeah, and what the fuck's that to you? Is this fucking with your perfect little image of us? Do you want to play happy families, do you fucking want to be perfect and proper like your brother, Mikey, because trust me when I say this Gerard, Mikey's not doing all that fucking great."

-


	16. Pete Likes Balls

Lindsey wasn't stupid.

Lindsey wasn't stupid and Pete wasn't discreet, and the whole house smelled of someone else and his sheets were messed up, and Pete was smiling, for once.

The whole place practically screamed sex.

Pete was not discreet.

In fact, Lindsey noticed it all upon the very moment that she walked through the door, raising her eyebrows in Pete's direction, who had, of course, just attempted to shrug it off, but failed in the process, because Pete Wentz and discretion resided in two entirely different ends of the universe.

"Who was it?" Lindsey got straight to the point, despite the fact that this was anything but straight, sitting down beside Pete after she'd closed the door behind herself. "Come on, I'm not stupid." She gave Pete a glare not to be messed with, leaving him to blush like hell as he pulled his knees up to his chest and poured himself another glass of wine.

It was wine today, apparently, which was oddly classy for Pete, but it made a change at the very least, because Lindsey was really starting to expect Pete just developing an allergy to vodka, because it was getting a little concerning now, to say the least, that was.

"What?" Pete played dumb: the only card he had left, and the only one he'd begun with - he didn't exactly know how to deal cards properly, evidently. "I don't know what you're talking about, I-"

"Bullshit." Lindsey cut him off, grabbing the bottle and pouring herself a glass of wine too, because, okay, Pete did have a concerning addiction to alcohol, but he definitely knew what was good and what wasn't by now, so if there was anyone to trust with that, it was most definitely Pete Wentz. "Since when did you drink wine, anyway?"

Pete shrugged it off: not entirely too sure of the answer himself, but whatever. "Since now, I guess. It's not nearly as shitty as I expected it to be, which is... nice... I don't know... I feel fucking classy, Lindsey, classy."

"You will never be classy." She promised him, taking a sip as she narrowed her gaze: utterly unconvinced by any of Pete's pouts or arguments.

"Stop bullying me." Pete scowled, folding his arms in a manner that ensured he looked far to young to be allowed to drink wine, but whatever, Lindsey was his lawyer, not his mother, even though the lines definitely did seem to blur more than they should.

"I'm not bullying you, I'm just telling you the truth. You're a gang leader, you're drunk for about ninety percent of your life, and you're refusing to tell me as to just who you had sex with here last night, and don't fucking bullshit me, Pete: I can tell."

"I didn't have sex with anyone." Pete continued, dropping the whole classy thing, because, well, okay, Lindsey had a point, and it was a damn good one at that. "But... yeah, there was someone here over night... we didn’t fuck, though, which is... disappointing, but he was high as fuck and was practically passing out all over me and well.. I'm not that much of an asshole."

"That's good news at the very least." Lindsey rolled her eyes, pulling her phone out after feeling it vibrate in her pocket, and making no secret of the way she blushed as she read Alicia's text message: it was unimportant, just a hello and several emojis that made very little sense, but to Lindsey, well, it was nothing short of the highlight of her day.

"Alicia." Pete was stupid, well, yeah, but Lindsey was being a very obvious lesbian right now, and to the extent that even Pete Wentz was picking up on it, which really meant that Alicia was pretty fucking stupid not to have noticed the great big lesbian affair going between her and Lindsey yet. "It's Alicia, and you're smiling and you're blushing. Lesbians."

"It's not gay, Pete, it's just a text." Lindsey didn't know just who she was lying to her, and well, why she was bothering, because with Pete constantly living in a state of severe intoxication, well, she was surprised that he remembered anything at all.

"That's what they all say." Pete grinned, giving Lindsey an 'I know your secret' look which made little to no sense whatsoever. "Anyway, could be a sext, and that really would be gay."

"Yes, because I would sext with you sat in front of me." Lindsey rolled her eyes, feeling another vibration from her phone, but deciding it best not to answer, because well, Pete was a fucking idiot, and it was too early in the morning for her.

"I would sext with you sat in front of me." Pete shrugged it off, casually grabbing his cellphone at that moment, because well, that wasn't awkward at all, but Pete was forever alone with no messages, so he set himself a reminder to get some more friends to make it look like he was replying to a text.

"So tell me who you were sexting, or just who stayed here last night, because, no offense, Pete, but you're not exactly mother fucking Theresa, you don't just let anybody in to stay in your bed, come on, you got angry when I let that guy who was passed out in."

"He was sick on my floor, I was right about that." Pete couldn't help but grin to himself at that. "He wasn't sick on my floor last night, though."

"I fucking knew it!" Lindsey exclaimed, far more excited than she ever should have been, but fuck it, she was kind of tipsy, and Pete was just beyond drunk, as ever. "There was some serious homo occurring between you two."

"What when he puked on my floor?" Pete raised his eyebrows at that: drunk, yet still unconvinced, because hey, Pete was a homo expert, and he knew when something was fucking homo, and puking on someone's floor was not homo, well that wasn’t something Pete would ever be into, in a million years.

"There was flirting. Minimal flirting, but flirting nonetheless, and anyway, how did you get from floor puking to him staying over in your bed?" Lindsey couldn't help but ask, because really, that was just a little unexpected, but then again, this was Pete Wentz, and well, he'd flirt with trees, and there was one occasion in which he was very drunk, and- yeah, let's not go there... for the tree's sake.

"He was very high and I am very susceptible to cute guys. My one weakness."

"I'd said alcohol is pretty high on your weaknesses list too." Lindsey added, gesturing casually towards the bottle of wine, because well, she was pretty sure that this was Pete's breakfast, but she didn't really have the motivation to bring it up and argue the point right now.

"Mikey and alcohol then.... Mikey’s really cute... okay... I wish I could flirt with him when he isn't on coke... I mean... it's different when he's on coke, isn't it?"

"I wish I could talk to you when you weren't drunk." Lindsey added, narrowing her gaze a little, and leaving Pete to shrug it off.

"It's different."

"How so?" Lindsey was unconvinced by Pete's half hearted excuse and was damn well sure to ensure that he knew so.

"Drunk's part of my personality, but him? No."

"You don't even know the guy." Lindsey pointed out, shaking her head frantically, because well, Pete was a fucking idiot.

"You barely know Alicia but you two are still sexting - shut the fuck up."

"We're not sexting-"

"Oh aren't you, now?"

"I give up." Lindsey shook her head firmly.

"That means I'm right." And that grin was both hilarious and worth punching right off Pete Wentz's goddamn face.

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does." Pete protested, downing another glass of wine like it was nothing, and Lindsey just exhaled loudly, giving up for real this time, because, maybe they weren't sexting, but maybe Lindsey wanted to, but still, no homo, of course, because what? Lesbians? They're not real, what the fuck.

Lesbians: Pete Wentz's favourite mythical creatures by far.

Although unicorns did come a close second, and maybe that had more to do with Mikey Way than Pete could possibly understand right now.

-

Frank was fucking irrational when he was angry, and Gerard was a fucking mess when Frank was angry with him, and well, needless to say, they hadn't ended up on the best of notes, and the result of their little 'argument' was the cause of Pete's doorbell ringing like someone had slammed their fist into it at eleven in the morning.

Pete and Lindsey only glanced at one another: a silent argument consisting of 'it's your house', and 'I'm drunk', and then just a few fucked up glares before Pete finished the bottle of wine, deeming him too drunk to walk, and leaving Lindsey to give in, getting up and making her way to the door.

"Frank?" She wasn't exactly expecting to see her favourite hobbit today, but it was most certainly better than that time the police had called and Pete ended up putting on a fake beard and a Japanese accent.

"I'm coming in." And with that, Frank pushed past her and made his way into the kitchen, where Pete was opening another bottle of wine, and really, Lindsey wasn't even aware of the fact that Pete even owned wine, prior to today, of course.

"Frank?" She called out after him, locking the front door before following him to the kitchen and sitting down beside what appeared to be a very angry hobbit.

"Frankie?" Pete even noticed Frank's presence, which was something to be proud of, in consideration of how drunk he was by now, but still Frank ignored both of them, pulling his phone out and sending a text to Gerard regarding his location: he didn't want to, but the guy would get weird about things, and fuck, it was just... complicated.

"Tell me what happened." Lindsey was stern, sitting down beside him and staring him down until he finally gave in and spoke something of some coherence.

"Gerard and I... well... we fought... I guess... I... guess... Pete- Pete what the... what did you text me? Seriously? You like..."

"Fuck me if I remember." And with that, Pete downed another glass of wine, and Lindsey almost felt obliged to apologise for his existence, and well, incompetence in general.

"You were with Mikey last night and he told you something and you told me that something and it's basically fucked my life up in the past few hours, so yeah, thank you."

"You're welcome." Pete was a little too drunk to understand sarcasm right now, so Frank just gave him a deep sigh, before letting it slide.

"Wait... what the fuck happened here?" Lindsey asked: seeking for clarification in response to the sentences that Pete was just too drunk to understand.

"Mikey, you know Mikey. The guy Pete had over, the guy with the coke addiction... Mikey Way... Gerard's brother... and the secret that I can't tell Gerard but need to, because he'll get so upset and it will just things up and things were just good for once and- oh fuck... I fucked up... I... I had it good for once and I just... I yelled at him for nothing, and we started arguing and I just let it slip, and he was already angry and he just lost it and I stormed out, and I... I mean... I fucked up and I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do."

"Apologise, for a start." Lindsey wondered just why she had to be the designated guidance counsellor for Gerard and Frank's relationship, but fuck it, buttfuck it, it wasn't as if Pete was in any state to give advice right now, was he?

"Ughh..." Frank groaned, leaning into Lindsey's side and wishing he could just disappear right then and there. "He hates me."

"He probably doesn't. He'll get over it... he's going to talk to Mikey now... I mean... if Mikey's his- fuck... does that mean Mikey's Alicia's boyfriend?"

"Yeah..." Pete looked up, grinning at Lindsey. "We must out gay them, Lindsey, we're like partners in homo, here, hey!"

"Pete, please don't." Lindsey just shook her head, trying to get her extreme lesbian outcries to shut up for a second as she tried to fix Frank's life for him.

"Look, give him time, apologise, tell him you love him, and then, you kiss him, tell him he's beautiful and that he matters. He's soppy: emotional, not really what I'd call your type, but whatever, I don't know... I wouldn't date him, but I don't have to, as long as you fix your shit, Frank, okay?"

"Ughh..."

"Balls, Frank, grow them."

"I like balls." Pete added, because, yes that was necessary.

"Thanks Pete." It took just about all of Lindsey's self control to ensure that she didn't end up slamming her fist into Pete’s face or something, because this was one of the times that left Lindsey unsure as to whether she was dealing with a gang leader or a seven year old. 

-

Gerard wasn't taking it well: he was taking it almost spectacularly badly, yet still, he was far more rational when it came to coping with heartache than Frank Iero ever was.

Gerard had called his brother nine times by now still not one of those calls had been picked up, and his eyes kept darting between the front door and his cellphone in a horribly self-destructive manner, because really, it the missing Frank that was killing him more than the truth about Mikey ever could.

He was a train wreck: a fucking spectacular train wreck and one that was utterly dependent on the world's biggest fucking whore, but at least, he'd managed to keep himself sat on the floor of his apartment up to now.

Up to now, he'd managed it for the time being: it was still only temporary and it was fucking ridiculous at that, because Gerard was nothing without failure, without giving in - whether it be to assholes or just addiction, it didn't matter, Gerard Way was a failure, and one proud of it.

He was damn fucking good at failing though, and with all the practice he'd had, really, it was nothing but to be expected, and still, failing remained his own talent as he rang his brother for the tenth time and again found himself with an utter lack of a response: he worried, he really did - Mikey could be anywhere and doing anything right now, especially with the knowledge of his coke addiction.

But, Gerard couldn't bring himself to continue, especially not with the knowledge of the pills in the cupboard and number hidden inconspicuously in a contact in his phone: if he were to yell at Mikey for being an addict, then really, he would be rendered nothing more than a hypocrite, and at least that was something he could add to his CV, among with spectacular failure, and rampaging homosexual.

Because, Gerard was worse than Mikey and the walk to the kitchen, and the cupboard and back made certain of that.

Just a few.

Just a few pills and it was okay, and it was a headache, it was a fucking permanent headache with a fucking temporary cure, and everything inside him was screaming, but still, the apartment was trapped in silence: he was the guard outside his own prison cell, he was the key on his own belt - unused, disregarded, yet yearned for.

It was ridiculous, but still, he was complacent and damn well scared, and the pills stopped that, even if the walls grew closer around him, and he felt so much more alone, with no hand to hold him through this, a few minutes of okay was worth the hours of headache and misery.

Gerard was the captain of misery, he was the war general of feeling sorry for himself, he was Winston Churchill of sob stories and theatrical pity. He was public enemy number one, and he was using pills to cure himself of a disease that he didn't have.

He didn't have the disease: he was the disease.

And the silence was broken: doorbell and echoes of walls with tacky wallpaper and chipped paint. Slow reflexes ensured a second ring, and the stumbling against the kitchen counter as he made his way towards the door ensured a third: impatience, but who was Gerard to judge.

A hypocrite, that was what he was.

But not proud, never proud: proud was a difficult concept all around: proud was lying to himself, and despite lying being one of Gerard's few talents, it was nothing but mediocre in comparison to others: Gerard was nothing but mediocre, and the headache was back and the doorbell was still ringing, and most of all, Gerard fucking missed him.

It was hell and it was an irregular heartbeat: this was the sickening feeling in the pit of the stomach with his fist gripped haphazardly around the handle, and this was the heart attack in a shocked recognition of the man behind the door.

"I'm here for Frank." 

Impatient: he was impatient, and Gerard was all stutters and a throat that swallowed coherence whole.

Gerard nodded.

It meant nothing and the man was sure of it.

"He's not here." Impatience practically drew the words from Gerard's mind, but the artist didn't particularly have the sobriety to consider the implications and probability of the man before him possessing the ability to read minds. "Is here?"

Gerard shook his head, and the man- well, he warranted a name by this point, especially since Gerard had recognised him- Bert sighed.

"He owes me a fuck. He really fucking owes me it." Anger: a roll of his eyes and a glance into the flat behind Gerard, just to check he wasn't lying - distrust. Anger, skepticism, and impatience: a trio of undesirable qualities, but Gerard was not in the position to judge, possessing less of a trio and far more of a dozen.

"He's- out..." Gerard finally choked a response out: it lacked eloquence, flair, emotion, and well everything, but they were two simple words that Bert McCracken understood.

"Is he coming back?"

Gerard shook his head.

"Pity." Bert decided he was coming in: closing the front door behind the two of them, and the pills left everything blurry up in Gerard's head. "You're alone now, aren't you? I'm alone too."

Gerard nodded.

"You want more pills, don't you... Gerard, was it?"

"Gerard." He managed to repeat his own name as he stumbled back into his apartment, Bert following him with a small smile upon his lips. "I have p-pills..."

"Doesn't matter then... I was just wondering... could give you a lot, you know? Any kind of drugs, cash, whatever, I'm lonely, and so are you... if Iero deems you worth his time, then you're more than worth mine... you're pretty anyway, really fucking pretty."

"T-thank you?" Fuck, Gerard was struggling to stand, let alone comprehend just what Bert was saying to him.

"What do you want, Gerard?" Bert asked him directly, almost as if speaking to a child, but Gerard was far too intoxicated to even consider patronisation and affects of it upon his self-confidence. "Just tell me."

"I want Frank back." And Gerard responded like a child: with innocence and uncertainty, and Bert smiled in response, stepping forward and grabbing Gerard’s hand, and still the artist found no need to retaliate or step away: he was gentle, and in the confusion of the pills up in the artist's head, Bert felt okay.

"So do I." Bert confessed, a sad smile upon his lips. "Do you want anything else?"

"I want my brother to call me back."

"I can't do that for him, I'm sorry." Bert sighed, pulling Gerard closer into his side. "Is there anything I can do?"

"You can make me feel better about it."

"Oh, yeah, I'm good at that."

-


	17. This Is The Best Plot I've Ever Come Up With & I Pulled It Right Out My Ass

Frank had never been any good when it came to apologies: after all, apologetic blowjobs were far more his style, as opposed to sentimental speeches and carefully chosen bouquets of flowers, but still, he found himself trying.

Even if trying had resulted in him getting on his knees anyway, because to hell with it, Frank kind of liked it like that, and this was just a small kind of thing: just something that'd give him the cash to get the kind of alcohol that could possibly give him the balls to actually go through with this.

Frank liked to think he was gutsy, but really, he was a coward as soon as he stepped out the bedroom and his ego began to fade away: he cared an awful lot about his ego, it being his pride and joy, but Gerard was his boyfriend, or at least had been, and somehow Frank had gotten to the stage of character development where that actually began to mean something to him at all.

He knew he shouldn't have freaked out like he had, and he knew that this was all his own fault, but still, he couldn't help but find himself sat with a cigarette on the balcony of another man's apartment as he came to reconsider every decision he'd ever made in his life: regardless if they involved Gerard or not.

Frank didn't even know what had been there with Gerard that just hadn't been with the hundreds of other people Frank had slept with, but the thoughts of self discovery that didn't involve getting his dick out made Frank's head ache like fuck, and he decided that staring out at the skyline and the grey clouds covering the bright oranges of sunset - possibility, chance, hope, and then reality pulling it back into the shades of grey, and really, there had to be at least fifty of them in the sky.

Frank couldn't help but think of himself as the grey, and of Gerard as the bright orange: the one there was hope for - the talented, the artist, the one who could get out of this hellhole of a town, and Frank, the grey, not Gandalf the grey, but as the lowlife not quite boyfriend holding him back.

Frank wondered just what this cigarette had been spiked with to cause him to view everything as fucking metaphor: now he was acting like an English teacher or an overrated teen novel about kids with cancer, or perhaps both, or perhaps neither and Frank was just actually going crazy here.

"You alright there? You want a drink or something- no offense, but you look like you need a drink." This wasn't a regular client of Frank's, but he was soon proving to be an awfully nice guy, and Frank was almost honoured to have sucked his dick, because well... Frank met a lot of assholes around here.

"You're right." Frank let out a sigh, pealing his gaze away from the sunset and sitting back in the chair to the left side of the balcony.

The client that Frank hadn't quite caught the name of passed him a can of beer as he took the chair on the right side of the balcony, and since the balcony itself was no bigger than a couple of metres across, they could quite easily converse from the chairs at either side.

"I never caught your name." Frank added, cracking open the can and taking a swig that Pete Wentz himself would be proud of.

"Brendon." The guy, Brendon, answered him with little hesitation, and making it evident that he was in fact the nicest guy in this whole town by the fact that he was more than happy to converse with a prostitute like they were just a normal person. "I'm assuming Iero isn't your first name."

"Frank." He put the can of beer down at his feet, and took another drag of his cigarette. "Frank Iero. You know, this whole conversation thing isn't something that usually happens with clients."

"What? Do you want me to pay you to talk to me-" 

"God, no- I..." Frank trailed off, exhaling just a little too loudly. "I'm pleasantly surprised, and I'm being to think that you are in fact the nicest person I've ever met."

"And you're the nicest, and only prostitute I've ever met." Brendon tried his best to return the compliment, but ended up with looking a little bit like an idiot as he did so.

"Thought so." Frank bit his lip as he considered actually trying to discuss his problems with the guy, because well, Frank needed some form of evidence that wasn't almost painfully strewn from the sarcasm poisoned lips of Lindsey Ballato. "C-Can I ask you about something- this isn't something I’d usually do, but I need some advice...?"

Brendon paused for a moment. "Sure." He was awkwardly tentative, and Frank was just a little unsure as to whether he was supposed to continue now, but he ended up shrugging it off and continuing regardless.

"I broke up with my boyfriend... well he broke up with me, and it was my fault entirely: I was being an asshole, and we were both kind of overreacting and everything just got blown out of proportion, and well... I want to apologise and I want him back, and I'm not exactly sure I know how to do that without severely fucking up again."

"Sucking some guy's dick instead of apologising to your boyfriend was a bad move in the first place." Brendon was going to be blunt here, and well, Frank kind of needed that right now. "But, he's either going to take you back or he's not: there's no point pushing it, or it's just going to fuck up again, so just tell him the truth, apologise and tell him how you feel, and if he accepts, then great, don't fuck up again, and if he doesn't, then, well that's a lesson learned - don't be an asshole."

"But I'm scared... I'm scared of him saying no... I k-kind... k-kind of love him, I guess, I'm not a relationships and love kind of person, but, he's different: I don't know how and I don't know why, but he is."

"You're definitely in love with him." Brendon chuckled a little at that, finishing his beer. "That's me and my ex-boyfriend... still in love with him, I guess, but... it's fine."

"You don't sound very fine." Frank couldn't help but comment, even though he knew this was the kind of thing that he'd most certainly get punched in the face for.

"Turned out he'd been cheating on me for a few months now, and well, that sucks, so... but, fuck, I still love him and it's killing me- I hope you didn't cheat on your boyfriend... I-"

"I didn't." Frank cut Brendon off before he started crying or punched Frank in the face: either was just as likely right now. "It was do with his brother and his brother's coke addiction and then an argument and-"

"Coca Cola?"

"Cocaine."

"Oh..." Brendon let out a sigh. "I'm not used to this: hookers and cocaine... I'm really not- I- I don't even know why I hired you tonight... I just... my dick was lonely and it needed some company, I felt kind of self-conscious even, like my dick I-"

"Your dick is bigger than your forehead, I promise you, there's no need to be self-conscious about it."

"Thanks." Brendon smiled oddly at Frank, and just like that, there was something inside Frank that couldn't help but feel as if he'd be seeing Brendon again.

-

Gerard lay sat upon his apartment floor for far too long after Bert had left.

Nothing had changed, not really, but it had: Gerard felt worlds away from the version of him who was crying over Frank walking out and this was character development in someway, but for better or for worse, he couldn't yet quite figure out.

Gerard had lost his clothes on the bedroom floor, and sat naked with a small bag of pills beside him, and he twitched a little as his eyes met them, because maybe this could all be fixed with a few pills: in Gerard's mind, most things could be fixed with a few pills, but somehow, this felt different, this felt real.

1And maybe that was because Gerard actually cared about Frank and how he felt about the twenty four year old was more than real, to say the least, but still, he'd found himself sat naked upon his apartment floor: clothes strewn across the bedroom: the sheets smelling of another man.

But it wasn't as if Gerard had said no.

Gerard had never said no, Gerard had never objected, Gerard hadn't entirely enjoyed it, but Gerard was far too high to really process anything right now: it didn't quite feel real, and without the physical reminders of it, Gerard reckoned he would have forgotten about it entirely by now, and maybe, just maybe that would have been for the better.

But he knew different: from the lies on his lips waiting to be told, to the smell on the sheets that told the whole story, Gerard knew that there was no possible positive to this situation, and at least he could bask in his guilt and misery until Frank came home, and well, Frank was stubborn as hell, so he might as well just sit here forever.

Gerard quite liked the sound of that, even if it was fucked up, because, hey, Gerard was fucked up, and there was absolutely no way around a truth as blatant as that.

He opened the bag of pills.

It was inevitable, and the waiting game was growing dull.

He placed one on his tongue, swallowing it dry, and expertly so, because Gerard had had some swallowing practice earlier on, and well, his technique was spot on, to say the least.

They tasted weird, and made his head ache a little, and honestly, Gerard hadn't the slightest clue as to their contents, but fuck it, he didn't care, he'd fucked up already and was beyond caring at this point: his head was spinning now, but still, Gerard Way couldn't quite bring himself to care.

Bert wasn't bad, after all.

Neither as a person or in bed.

His morals and intentions were just slightly askew, and that was forgivable, wasn't it? AT least Gerard thought so, and maybe he was an idiot for it, but the pills had made everything far too numb for him to even fathom giving one single fuck.

He kind of liked this numbness anyway: it was peaceful, calming, and it was something he could count and rely on.

But as the front door slammed open: unlocked, and pathetically so - Gerard was vulnerable, and well goddamn naked, and he knew it, but still he remained still and frozen as the front door was slammed shut and footsteps echoed throughout the flat as they made their way to the bedroom door, and then with a creak and a twist of the handle, light from the window in the next room streamed into the dimly lit bedroom, as the intruder made their way inside.

Gerard jumped a little as the dimmer switch on the light was turned up to full, and his gaze fell upon the face of the man before him: it wasn't someone he recognised.

And now was entirely too late to get shy about being naked.

"You're not Frank." The voice was slightly nasally and rather snappy: impatient, and not exactly happy to find this naked, drugged up emo on the apartment floor. "Where's Frank?"

"I-I-... I don't know- w-who are you?" Gerard stuttered out, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around himself as the man rolled his eyes.

"It's none of your business, and I could ask you very much the same question." The man countered, pausing a moment before repeating his first question. "Where's Frank?"

"I told you." Gerard stood up, stumbling a little as he did so, but with the blanket still wrapped around him. "I don't know."

"Okay then." The man was unconvinced, but gestured for Gerard to step forward. "Come into the main room."

"Why are you in my apartment?" Gerard asked: his voice meek and quivering in places, and well, that made the man stop in his tracks.

"This is your apartment?" He asked, his eyebrows rising a little.

"Yeah... I wasn't that... obvious...?" Gerard stuttered out, his cheeks flushing a horrible shade of red.

"Well, you did look an awful lot like some trashy whore like that on the floor. You're a pretty trashy whore, though, which is a shame because I don't like you anymore." The man grabbed Gerard by the wrist and pulled him out into the main room of the apartment.

"Why not?" Gerard asked, his heart thudding in his chest as the man pushed Gerard into a chair.

"Because this is your apartment: Frank was staying here, and don't you dare lie... you were hiding him from me, weren't you?" And with that, the man reached to his coat pocket, and all too casually, pulled out a pistol. He didn't aim it at Gerard, but turned the safety off and held it in his hand - just to let Gerard know that it was there.

"I- I-I..." And then it clicked: this was who Frank was hiding from, and he'd finally found him, just when Frank happened to be out, and Gerard wasn't at all sure as to whether that was for better or for worse.

"Come on, don't be a naughty boy now, and tell daddy the truth." Gerard's cheeks blushed a very prominent shade of red at a sentence that much rather belonged in porn as opposed to well, whatever the fuck this was. "Oh we both know that you're a dirty little whore, sat naked on the bedroom floor - it fucking smelled of sex. Such a shame that little Frank had to run off after fucking you, now wasn't it?"

"He didn't- I- he's been gone a while-" Gerard choked out, his cheeks still a horrible shade of red.

"Oh, so you are a naughty little boy... getting fucked by other men? Honestly... you should be punished for that... such a shame I'm interested in Frankie, and not you, isn't it? But I guess I could make an exception- tell me your name, how about that?"

"I..I..." Gerard wanted to run, but the gun was still very visible in the man's hand. "I don't- please don't."

"It's just a name." The man shrugged it off, switching the safety back on his gun. "Just a name. It's clear what's happened here: Frank's left you like he's left me, and you're confused, and so was I. Has he told you the full story?"

Gerard shook his head hesitantly, but he shook his head nonetheless. 

"Thought so." The man took a seat on the chair beside Gerard. "Tell me your name and I tell you everything, because you deserve to know: you care about him, and you deserve to know the truth and what he's really like."

"I'm G-Gerard." And Gerard knew he'd regret this like he knew this guy was an asshole, but still, the words seemed to tumble from his lips with little regard for the consequences that would follow.

"Pretty name for a pretty boy." The man's face contorted into something that almost resembled a smile.

"A-and who are you?" Gerard stumbled out, just wanting an answer, just wanting a name, just wanting one thing that made the slightest bit of sense whatsoever, because right now, he was nothing but clueless.

"That doesn't matter, sweetheart, now come on. I met Frank a long time ago now... he was my little whore for a bit, and then maybe it was something more for a while, but he kept whoring himself up for other people... I didn't like that... who would, but I was angry, as I should have been, and well he started denying that all, he started liking being other people's whore more than he liked being mine, and well, I looked after him, I let him live with me, I gave him money to support himself... and there was kind of something there... and then there was you, I guess. And it's not your fault, it's not mine, it's his, and I know you want to defend him: he's good with sucking up to people, and well sucking dick - you shouldn't blame yourself."

"I wasn't angry that he slept with other people while we were dating, because well, that's his job, he's a prostitute, despite how little he wants to admit it... that's who he is, and I'm an artist, who thought he was cute and he was my neighbour and he was always too loud and it was just chance that we met, and then things happened and we fucked, and... he's good in bed - everyone knows that, but... I don't know what's happening now, because I think there's this other guy called Pete, and I wouldn't be wrong to suspect that Frank's with him now."

"Wentz?" The man raised his eyebrows, clearly having not expected Pete Wentz's name to come up in this conversation. Gerard nodded in response, eyes widening a little as he did so. "Wentz's nothing: he's a 'gang leader' but he's the guy in charge of a bunch of drunken pussies that beat up people sometimes. He has his vices, though, and Frank's one of them."

"I met him and he was drunk the whole time, and he kept flirting with Frank really obviously, and- fuck what am I saying?" Gerard didn't know just when he'd began to agree with the man who his boyfriend was running from- ex-boyfriend. When Frank had become his ex-boyfriend: that was when.

"I could take Wentz out effortlessly, but I don't think Frank's worth it, not anymore. I mean, I have you... pretty little you - what else could I want?" The man finally pocketed his gun.

"Y-You have m-me?" Gerard stuttered out, not exactly expecting that, but he didn't quite know how to decline, or even if he wanted to for that matter.

"What do you think about that, sugar? You're pretty, and you're all alone, and we've both been fucked over by Iero: we have a lot in common." Gerard was unconvinced, but the man made it clear that he was more than just a little persistent. "I don't mean to hurt you, I came on strong, I came on like a prick, I came on like him, but I thought you were still his boyfriend, still on his side, and that he hadn't done the same to you that he'd done to me. Believe me when I tell you this, Gerard, that we're alike, you and I."

"I'm sat naked in my apartment and some strange man is asking me-"

"Look, you're in a mess right here: you can get dressed, have a shower, whatever, and I'll take you back to mine, get you away from where he can find you, where he can fuck with your head again. I'll keep you safe, not like he pretends to: I care, you know I do - I would have shot you by now, wouldn't I, if I didn't?"

And Gerard had to admit to himself that he had a point.

"But I don't even know your name..." Gerard finally piped up, his eyes glassy and widened a little: considering it far more than he'd care to admit, because there was just something about this guy that there'd never been with Frank - he couldn't quite place it, but there was a certain sincerity behind his words, than even despite the circumstance, and Gerard’s feelings, left the artist inclined to believe that he was right about the boy he'd loved for the past few months.

"It matters now, I guess." The man stood up, reaching out for Gerard to grab his hand, as he ushered the twenty eight year old back towards his bedroom so he could get dressed again, because well, it would look an awful lot like some sort of human trafficking if he dragged Gerard out of here whilst he was naked.

"The name's Toro. Ray Toro."

-


	18. The Butt And The Crack (Cocaine)

Gerard had slept for something like eighteen hours now, and mainly because Ray Toro's bed was practically the most comfortable thing he'd ever known.

It was kind of ridiculous, and he just knew that he was pathetic at this point, but Ray kept calling him cute, so to a sleepy Gerard, nothing seemed to matter at all.

There wasn't even the slightest hint of the fact that he knew he shouldn't be here, because this wasn't his life, and this wasn't how things were supposed to be, but- fuck it, who said so? Who said that he couldn't have the nice life in the nicest apartment he'd ever seen? Who said so?

Frank fucking Iero, probably.

Gerard groaned, stretching a little as he moved in bed, groaning slightly as he did so, and in consequence grabbing Ray's attention, and sending the curly hair man into the bedroom.

"Morning, sleeping beauty." Ray grinned a little as he spoke, leaving Gerard to blush into the sheets as he grabbed his cellphone from the dresser and checked his messages: generally uninteresting, and Ray hadn't expected anything less. "It's two in the afternoon: you want to think about getting out of bed now?"

Gerard sat up, the sheets twisting around him and almost rooting him to the bed, his inky black hair falling in his face, only to pushed back many times and eventually just tucked behind his ears as he attempted to maintain eye contact with Ray Toro.

"It's comfy. I like it here: warm, nice, and comfy." Gerard mumbled, making it evident that he was by no means fully awake now, but Ray didn't seem to mind, only chuckling a little as he sat down on the end of the bed.

"I knew you'd think so." Gerard moved to the end of the bed, sitting beside Ray, and looking at him like he fully trusted the man, despite the fact that they'd barely known one another for a day or so. "You're a good boy, you're thankful for what you're given. Frank, on the other hand... he never seemed to care... never seemed to spend anytime with me, ever- never even knew where he fucked off to for the most part: I was worried, and- Jesus Christ, I-"

"I'll never make you worried." Gerard promised, smiling at Ray, as he leaned his head into his side. "I'm not like Frank."

"I know you're not." Ray put his arm around Gerard. "You're nothing like him at all: kind, sweet, and well behaved - honestly, I can't even imagine how you two ended up dating... opposites attract or something like that?" Gerard shrugged a little, but nodded regardless. "That's bullshit if you ask me: you're never going to get along with the polar opposite of yourself, are you?"

"Sometimes we got along, but there were a lot of arguments, and mess, and he sometimes didn't like it when I was up at night painting." Gerard admitted, his head still spinning a little, and somehow just innately biased towards agreeing with every word Ray said, and really, Gerard didn’t' seem to mind at all.

Ray was good, and Frank was bad, and really, it was just that simple.

"You paint?" Ray's eyes widened a little as his face was overtaken by a wild and largely unexpected grin. 

Gerard nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I guess so."

"You any good?"

"Frank said I was-" Gerard didn't quite realise just how negatively Ray was going to react to any notion of Frank Iero’s existence.

"I don't care what Frank said- I'll see for myself. You could paint for me later?" Ray asked, his face falling a little as he noticed Gerard's. "I'm sorry... I- you know how I feel about Frank, look, I'm sorry I snapped at you - it was my fault, okay?"

"Not your fault." Gerard murmured, pulling the sheets away from him as he attempted to get out of bed.

"So we are getting up now, are we, princess?" And well, Gerard blushed like hell itself at the word 'princess', and of course, Ray only laughed in response. "You're cute."

"I-I..." Gerard stammered out: his cheeks hot and flushed, and still, all the more 'cute' to Ray.

"Come on, I'll go make you some breakfast, and you can get dressed while I'm gone. Is that good?" Gerard nodded in response, giving Ray a small smile before he left the room, purposefully not quite closing the door behind him.

Gerard let out a sigh as he got out of the bed and faced his reflection in the mirror: frowning at himself a little - he didn't look like he belonged here in what was probably the fanciest apartment Gerard had ever seen in his life, and Gerard just looked like the saddest little whore in the whole damn world.

He wondered if Frank had even noticed his absence: he wondered if Frank had even cared.

He shook the thought off as he pulled on the clothes that Ray had laid out for him: they were a little big, but it was okay, and as Gerard faced his reflection in the mirror once again - now clad in black skinny jeans and a grey t-shirt, he almost managed a smile.

Gerard turned his cellphone and where it lay on the windowsill: turned off - not something he remembered doing, but he shrugged it off and turned it on regardless, finding that he had a couple of text messages that he hadn't yet read: Lindsey, Pete, and Alicia, but not Frank.

Perhaps Ray really was right.

And just as Gerard was about to view the few messages he had received, Ray called for him from the kitchen, and he found himself forced to put the cellphone back down on the windowsill, making his way through the hallway and into the kitchen, and really, Gerard was just thankful that the apartment was small enough to ensure that he avoided getting lost, but although 'small', it was at least three times as big as his own.

"Took your time." Ray commented as Gerard sat down at the table in the place that Ray had set out for him: ensuring that the two of them were sat opposite one another. "You look good." He added, eyeing Gerard as he sat down.

"T-thanks." Gerard stuttered out: his face complete with that stupid blush again.

"Anyway, I hope you like pancakes." Ray let out a laugh, gesturing to the breakfast he'd made.

"Yeah." Gerard added, smiling as he began to eat, feeling a little awkward as Ray's eyes seemed to follow his every movement.

"Frank ever make you pancakes?" Ray asked with a somewhat over enthusiastic smirk.

"N-No..." It was a lie.

"I though not." And a smile that Gerard most certainly did not deserve.

-

Brendon Urie found himself staring again: staring at the butt.

The butt.

Now that sounded like some villain in a super hero themed porno or something, but this wasn't anything like that.

This was Brendon sat at his desk in the office, ignoring his work and his coffee in favour of turning to stare at the butt of a certain co-worker who had been forced to use the water fountain near Brendon's desk after the one at the other side of the office had broken.

Brendon didn't even know the guy's name, but he knew for sure that the guy had a fucking wonderful butt, and well, his face was pretty cute too, but... butt.

And Brendon was pretty sure that his coffee was cold by now, but he was also pretty sure that he didn't care, and in turn, pretty sure that he'd have to start drinking water, and solely for the chance to bump into a certain bootylciious co-worker of his.

It wasn't a crush: Brendon wasn't in 'love'.

This was casual: as everything had been and had to be after Dallon, and his conversation with Frank Iero last night had only served to enforce that.

And of course the fact that Frank was probably the nicest prostitute he had and would ever met, because if Brendon ever need to pay someone to have sex with him again, he couldn't possibly go elsewhere than Frank, because not only was the guy nice: he was fucking good too.

Brendon seemed to jump in his chair as the butt moved from where he was stood at the water fountain, filling up his water bottle after what seemed like hours, and fucking turning, and of course making eye contact with Brendon, who was staring like a fucking idiot.

Needless to say, they both blushed, and Brendon considered hanging himself with his tie in toilets as he turned back to his work, attempting to concentrate on anything: fucking anything at all other than the cute guy with the butt.

Holy fuck, he'd gone, and Brendon was saved, and his coffee was cold, and his word document hadn't saved and he was left to start from the auto save from twenty minutes ago, because fuck his life, and it was really more than evident that God absolutely despised him at this point.

Fuck it, Brendon stood up, making his way to the toilets, determined to go sit in a cubicle and play Candy Crush for a little bit at the very least.

But again, it was apparent that God had other ideas as it was apparent that not only had Brendon walked in on something, but he walked in on a fucking drug deal: and in this fucking shitty ass office building of all places.

He was sort of frozen on the spot as he came to meet the gaze of the guy receiving the drugs: Mikey from the other side of the office, who probably worked near the butt, and holy fuck, Brendon could not be thinking about butt right now, because he'd just witnessed a cocaine deal in real life.

Only then did the dealer turn around: some dude from customer support with five kids from five different mothers, and now a newfound hatred for Brendon Urie.

"Not a fucking word." He yelled, pinning Brendon up against the wall. "If something gets out: I know who to come and kill, got that, Brendon?"

He nodded quickly. "Y-Yes." And with a sigh, the asshole let him go, before darting out of the toilet door, leaving Brendon stood awkwardly with Mikey, who was still holding a bag of cocaine in his hand.

"He means it." Mikey added, putting the bag into his coat pocket as he turned to the mirrors and fixed his fringe like nothing had even happened.

"I gathered." Brendon stuttered out, making his way towards the cubicles and picking a suitable one to play Candy Crush in for the next ten minutes or so, but only then did he notice the occupied cubicle and the feet on the floor: someone had been shitting whilst a drug deal was occurring and Brendon got threatened by a guy from customer support.

He turned to Mikey, catching his attention in the mirror, and silently gesturing towards the cubicle, which Mikey fucking shrieked at because he was most definitely dead right now, and just as if on cue, the cubicle door opened, revealing slightly overwhelmed and blushing guy, and holy fuck, Brendon could recognise that butt anywhere.

"I-I'm go- gonna go." He stuttered out, making a beeline for the door.

"Wash your hands." Mikey interrupted him, leaving Brendon to watch in stunned silence as the guy trailed back to the sinks and turned on the taps. "Hygiene. Anyway, you're going to keep quiet like Brendon is, aren't you?"

The butt nodded, well, the physical butt didn't nod, but like, the guy with the butt did indeed nod.

"And your name. Don't lie to me, asshole." And well, Mikey got defensive when it came to his coke, to say the least.

"R-Ryan..." He stuttered out, turning back to face Brendon who was almost nodding in approval at his name. 

"Ryan Ross?"

"Y-Yeah..."

"Oh yeah I've heard of you: you slept with the boss for a promotion last month, didn't you?" Mikey smirked, firing information he'd learned from Alicia like little verbal grenades.

"I- I-... uhh..." Ryan's face was bright red, and really, that was all Mikey needed.

"So, I assume that if what happened here doesn't get out, then your little secret won't either, huh?" And with a shaky nod from Ryan, Mikey made his way out of the bathroom, leaving Ryan and Brendon stood face to face in the world's most awkward silence.

"Okay, right if you don't mind me I'm going to go lock myself in this cubicle and have a panic attack for the next quarter of an hour or so." Brendon announced, pushing the cubicle door open.

"Wait-" Ryan stopped him, releasing an agonising sigh from Brendon's lips. "Why were you staring at me earlier? Have I like got... a stain or is my like face weird- I-"

"I was staring at you because you're cute- hey, I wasn't even staring at you, I was staring at your butt for the most part if I'm honest."

And with that, Brendon retreated into the cubicle, and promptly died.

-

Perhaps it was arrogant of Frank to be quite as astounded as he was in this weird kind of heart wrenching realisation brought on by an abandoned and wrecked flat.

Frank had never once considered that Gerard would be the one to leave him: of course, he'd seen the opposite as just a thing: a Frank kind of thing, but apparently standing up to his asshole of a 'boyfriend' and getting the fuck out wasn't a Gerard thing at all, or at least in Frank's head it hadn't been, because reality was serving no purpose other than to prove him wrong.

This really wasn't something Frank had experienced before.

In fact, he'd never felt anything like it: this was just a mess, and the front door still lay open behind Frank, who had only managed a couple of steps into the apartment, calling out Gerard's name, before coming to the realisation of a life time and dropping the bouquet of flowers to the floor in a gesture of nothing but theatrical nature, but Frank's head was a mess: through and through.

Perhaps Gerard's apartment was a lot like Frank: empty, cold, and alone, or maybe Frank just really needed a drink right now, but as he stepped further into the apartment and caught sight of the evidence that Gerard had once been here, his heart really did begin to break in two.

The wall beside the bedroom was dented almost as if something had been thrown against it, and that led Frank to make his way to the bedroom door: already slightly ajar, and the bedroom itself held all Frank needed to ensure that he was utterly dead inside.

The place still smelt of the deed that had occurred, and Frank was certain he hadn't been involved in it: sheets strewn across the floor, along with clothes just abandoned, and of course, a little bag of weed on the bedside table.

And Frank stood frozen in his tracks for entirely too long, because Gerard had slept with someone else here- he'd cheated on him, but no, fucking no he hadn't, because Frank was the one to walk out that door, and Gerard was the one left behind.

It was ridiculous, and everything was scaled far out of proportion, and Frank was reaching for the bag of weed like it was the Holy Grail, and for him right now, it probably was.

With the bag of weed in his hand, Frank made his way back into the main room of the apartment that technically didn't even belong to him, but it didn't look like Gerard seemed all that keen upon coming back any time soon.

Frank wondered if he was off with the guy he'd fucked in their bed, and Frank wondered why he even bothered, because it was thoughts like this that made him sick to the stomach, and still, he thought them, and he continued to let them linger on his mind as he grabbed a can of beer: the first form of alcohol he set his eyes upon, because right now, Frank wasn't picky at all.

And as he downed the can, he came to remember something he'd forgotten: something important, but something insignificant up in Frank's head right now - the front door, and well, the guy who'd just walked in through it.

"Lovely flowers these." And Frank couldn't help but feel like he recognised the guy, getting to his feet as greasy hair fell away to reveal an awfully familiar face. "You're looking for Gerard, aren't you?"

"B-Bert McCracken?" Frank soon put a name to the face as he made his way towards the 'intruder'.

"That's me." He let out a sigh, putting the bouquet of floors down on the kitchen counter top. "I was looking for you a few days ago."

"You were?" Frank couldn't deny that although Bert was by no means the worst of his clients, he did indeed make him more than a little uncomfortable.

"I was, Frank, I was indeed: I was looking for your services, but I found Gerard: a fucking mess on the floor, and well, he missed you, must have grown some fucking balls because I have no clue as to where he's fucked off to now: we had that in common - missing you."

"So I owe you a fuck? Is that what you're here to throw in my face?" Frank's tone was laced with spite at even the notion of Gerard just leaving him like this, because in Frank's mind, the alcohol was a welcome cure for any reminder of the horrendous truth.

"No, you don't owe me anything. Gerard sorted that out for me: you weren't here so I fucked him instead." And Frank went as white as a sheet.

"You fucking ra-"

"Oh god, no." Bert shook his head firmly at that one. "I asked him, of course I did, and he agreed, of course he did, it's nothing to worry your pretty little head about, Iero, as long as you remember that I'm not the one that left him crying on the floor. I made sure he was all tucked up in bed before I left in the morning, hell, I even gave him a kiss goodbye-"

"He'd never fucking agree to letting someone like you have sex with him."

"Frank, you underestimate just how alike you and I are, because I'd say that someone like Gerard Way shouldn't even be within a million miles of you, let alone sleeping with you, and honestly, I can only assume that he's fucked off a guy who actually offered to treat him right."

"He wouldn't just walk off with a guy-"

"After what you've put him through? Come on, where else has he gone? Who else has he gone to stay with? Not his brother, his brother with the coke addiction, no- he can't face him now, and it was you that fucked that up, wasn't it?"

"How the fuck do you know?" Frank was practically screaming at this point, but Bert knew for once he had the moral high ground here, and was ensuring that he did nothing but abuse it.

"He told me, Frank, he told me. We had a little chat, and I made him feel better, because he was upset, and by the end of the night he was sleeping soundly - I treated him better in one night than you've treated him throughout the entire duration of your 'relationship'. You don't deserve him, come on, Iero, be real here, the guy deserves a prince and not a whore with nothing to say for himself - we both know that."

"You don't deserve him either-"

"I don't, I know, and that's fine, because it was just make you feel better sex, it was just a friendly gesture, I don't fuck around with his head and leave him crying alone, do I? But still, Iero, lovely flowers, at least you put some sort of effort into buying his trust back: I guess I have to commend you on that, don't I?"

-


	19. Sex Ed With Brendon Urie

Frank was fucked up and more than a little wasted as he slammed his fist against the front door of Pete Wentz's house: he was desperate and pathetic, and reckoned he'd probably end up sleeping with someone by the ending of the night, but really, he didn't care.

That was what he was good for anyway, wasn't it?

All he was good for, anyway.

And he repeated that fact to himself several times over as the front door finally opened and Frank's intoxicated form feel straight into Pete's questionably sober one, and well, Frank hadn't expected this kind of sobriety from the friend who was fucking renowned for getting drunk, but whatever.

"Are you dying or just drunk?" Pete asked, holding Frank's limp body kind of awkwardly, and only for the sake of ensuring that his friend didn't instantly fall to the floor and die, because that was about where Pete drew the line with friendship and emotional attachments.

"Both." Frank mumbled into Pete's shoulder, leaving the 'gang leader' to let out a mildly frustrated sigh as he locked the front door behind them and attempted to drag Frank into the living room, pushing him down onto the sofa and just praying that he didn't do a Mikey Way and puke all over his carpet, because seriously, that was a nice carpet, and it had been through more than it had ever deserved.

"Right, okay, is there any sort of explanation to this?" Pete asked, putting on his best Lindsey voice as he made his way into the kitchen, looking for some like fucking herbal tea bullshit or even just some water to calm Frank the fuck down, however, he ended up settling for an orange Capri Sun, and well, needless to say, Pete got one for himself too.

"Is that a fucking Capri Sun?" Frank groaned, having buried his face into Pete's sofa, and well, with the likelihood that he would vomit at any moment, that was not exactly something Pete was comfortable with.

"Yes. Don't be a fucking asshole about it or I'm going to just kick you the fuck out." Pete rolled his eyes, handing Frank the Capri sun, and at that moment, Frank did indeed decide that it would be probably best if he just shut the fuck up and let Pete waffle on about whatever bullshit he desired.

It wasn't like Frank's life could get any worse now, was it?

Well, technically, it could, of course, but Frank was trying his best not to fucking jinx his luck or something, because okay, he wasn't really in the mood right now at all.

"So why are you drunk and dead inside and dangerously close to puking all over my sofa?" Pete wasn't nearly as good as the whole advice and comforting bullshit as Lindsey was, but Frank was really good in bed, so yeah, he was going to try.

"Gerard." Frank groaned against the sofa, and Pete couldn't help but raise his eyebrows, because the guy was a gentle fucking flower, and most certainly not somehow capable of reducing someone like Frank Iero to tears.

"What the fuck did he do?" Pete exclaimed, tone exaggerated, but Frank didn't really seem to care or even notice for that matter.

"Left me, or something like that- fuck, I don't know anymore, I'm really kind of drunk, but like we had that argument and then Lindsey gave me advice, and I like I fucking bought him fucking flowers- I was going to be all bullshit and sappy and romantic about it for him, but he's not there when I'm back, and then some fucking guy: Bert is all up in my ass about the fact that he fucked Gerard, and I'm like fuck off, but he's like oh yeah Gerard just walked off with another guy, but like no, he wouldn't fucking do that? My head fucking hurts and I want this to be a dream, and I want to wake up right the fuck now."

"So gentle flower Gerard cheated on you?" Pete was in a state of fucking disbelief. "Gerardo? My buddy pal- ridiculous, actually are you sure you're not just excessively drunk because I'm having a serious problem believing this?"

"I really fucking hope so." Frank groaned, pulling his knees up his chest and turning his face away, neglecting his Capri Sun in a very heartless gesture that wholeheartedly mattered. "Anyway, I guess we were technically broken up when he did sleep with Bert, so, like... he didn't cheat on me, but my heart still fucking hurts."

"So you hurt this asshole the fuck down and get your boyfriend back, huh?" Pete suggested, finishing his Capri Sun, and taking a moment to control his urges for another, because seriously, he was a gang leader with a Capri Sun addiction, but whatever, he did what the fuck he wanted: he was hardcore, or something.

"Well, I would, but I have no fucking idea who the fuck this guy is: he must be someone from Gerard’s past or something, and well, he didn't really talk about that an awful lot, so we're kind of fucked right now." Frank groaned, grabbing his cellphone and checking his messages, and of course, nothing new from Gerard, because that would be too fucking easy, wouldn't it?

"Well, what about someone from your past? Someone wanting to get back at you, honestly, I guess you have a lot of enemies, don't you, Iero?" And at that, Frank's eyes grew so wide that they practically fell through their sockets.

"Fuck- fuck- fuck-the guy- fucking Toro.... fuck... no, no, no. He wants me, not Gerard, anyway, so he couldn't, but- fuck- I'm going-" Frank shook his head firmly, almost going into a full blown mental breakdown at the simplest notion of Ray Toro going anywhere near Gerard Way.

"Call him- find the fuck out." Pete instructed, sitting up and actually acting like a gang leader for once, which was entirely puzzling. "I'll help you get him back, I promise, if you promise not to puke on my carpet, how about that?"

"Sure..." Frank let out a sigh, sitting up and holding his cellphone in his hand: his fingers trembling just a little. "Fuck.. fuck... I can't- he's the worst guy you'll ever know, I just- Gerard, I-"

"Fuck do it, Iero, grow the fucking balls, think about him fucking your boyfriend okay, and call him and threaten the absolute fuck out of him-"

And with that, Frank was practically slamming his fist again the call button, his hands shaking as he held the phone to his ear.

"Been a while, hasn't it, Frankie?" The voice almost cut his heart in two. "I guess you want your whore back, don't you?"

-

Brendon was fucking late for work and he'd spilt fucking coffee on his shirt, and it fucking sucked, but his shirt was black so it didn't matter that much, and well, Brendon was just kind of thanking the lords of emo there for inventing the colour black.

"Brendon-" He almost jumped at an awfully familiar voice at his heels, and he couldn't help but stop breathing for a good few seconds as the fucking butt-Ryan appeared at his side. "Hi, I... my head's a fucking mess: I can't stop thinking about the coke- I... I know... I-"

"We just forget that it ever even happened - it's literally that easy, we get on with our lives like nothing ever happened- literally that easy." Brendon rolled his eyes a little, because although this guy was hot, he wasn't exactly the brightest.

"But it's fucking bothering me, like I got like two hours of sleep last night, because like what if the police come and they look for witnesses and we don't say anything and then they realise that we were there, and then we get fucking arrested and I don't want to go to prison, I'm fucking clumsy as fuck and I don't want to drop any fucking soap-"

"Chill the fuck out." Brendon almost laughed at him, but Ryan did seem genuinely distressed, and Brendon knew that this would be a very good moment in which to gain his trust, and in turn, entry to his bedroom. "That's not going to happen, I promise you, and if it does, I'll say that you weren't even there, then only I get arrested and you don't, okay?"

"But what if you drop the soap?" Ryan's eyes widened, and really Brendon was beginning to wonder whether this guy was actually okay in the head.

"I like it up the ass, so that's fine." Brendon shrugged it off, because although, he did technically top, saying it like this had the far better reaction on Ryan's part.

"Holy fuck-" Oh Jesus Christ- if he was going to go full straight person on him then Brendon knew he would not hesitate to slap the fuck out of his pretty little face.

"What?" Brendon rolled his eyes, turning to meet Ryan's gaze. "I'm gay and you're not going to get arrested and we're going to be fine, I absolutely fucking promise you, Ryan."

"So... wait, when you have a cock up your ass-" Brendon choked a little, not really expecting the guy to be quite so blunt, but whatever, Ryan seemed to continue regardless. "Does it like hurt? Cause like what if it's a big cock, and like your ass isn't that big, is it? Do gay people have a bigger ass? Doesn't that hurt more than anything, like how does that even make you come?"

Brendon let out a sigh, and decided that he really would have preferred that Ryan had asked if when he'd 'turned' gay or, or whether he had a crush on him, or just freaked the fuck out, or whatever the fuck else straight people like to say.

"Look, you stretch your fucking asshole before the cock goes in, okay, you, or your partner fingers you asshole and you use a shit ton of lube, because otherwise your asshole is literally going to fall the fuck out, and it makes you come, because, Ryan, up your pretty little straight white boy ass, you have a prostate, and when a cock hits that, you are in fact literally going to die, you are going to come the fuck everywhere-"

"Is it really that good?" Ryan's interest in this was kind of concerning by this point, but Brendon did kind of like talking about his ass, so he found himself continuing nevertheless.

"Well, if your partner's good, then yeah." Brendon shrugged it off, wondering if he could somehow spin this into fucking Ryan in the toilets or something - it was unlikely, but Brendon literally had nothing to lose here, so he sure as hell was going to try.

"Is it better than straight sex- like... does it feel better than-"

"Depends if you're into gay things, doesn't it?" Brendon gave a casual shrug, before turning to Ryan. "You're asking an awful lot of gay questions for a straight dude, you know?"

"Well, I don't know... they don't teach you this at school, you know? Holy fuck, why don't they teach gay people how to have safe sex at school, like, what the fuck?" Ryan's eyes practically fell from their sockets at that point.

"Because homophobes don't give a shit if we get AIDs or whatever, because it's our own fault for being such filthy fucking faggots, of course." Brendon rolled his eyes, watching as Ryan continued to stare in disbelief.

"So how did you find out what to do?"

"Porn, asking my partners, just general googling, if it's your first time and like your boyfriend's done this before, then he is going to tell you what you're supposed to be doing- if he isn't a fucking asshole that is, and if he is, you really shouldn't let him fuck you in the first place. Anyway, why are you even asking?"

"I'm just curious." Ryan mumbled, blushing a little: his gaze falling to the floor, and Brendon couldn't help but admit that he was more than just a little disappointed with the lack of homosexual subtext in his response.

"Well, okay, I'm here if you get curious again." And with that, Brendon made sure to walk very fucking quickly away from Ryan, and to practically bury his head on his desk, and kill himself with whatever the fuck he was actually being paid to do here, and just- holy fuck, pray to the fucking lord that they'd finally fixed the water fountain, because no, Brendon reckoned that he most absolutely could not deal with talking to Ryan Ross for a second time that day.

-

"You're good." Ray's voice lacked any real sense of meaning: he just spoke, and Gerard just nodded and put pen to paper once again. 

"Really good." He added, a few moments later, and perhaps in response to Gerard's faltering smile - no that it mattered, of course.

"T-thank you." Gerard stuttered out: at a loss for what else to say.

"You're beautiful, seriously." Ray spoke again after a moment, pulling Gerard's gaze away from his sketch in a far more permanent manner; he was an insecure little bitch at heart, and there was nothing a smile compliment like that couldn't accomplish with Gerard - perhaps it would always be his one true weakness, perhaps not - there was no telling.

"Y-" Gerard couldn't even really figure out what he was going to respond with, before Ray took Gerard's hand in his, and kissed him: again, a simple gesture - on the lips, not quick, but not long, not apathetic, but in no way meaningful.

It was just enough, and Ray knew it.

Gerard didn't.

Ray wondered if he ever would.

"Shall we go somewhere?" Ray asked, although there was little point in it being posed as a question, as both of them knew exactly what the answer already was, and exactly whose hands it lay in.

"Where?" Gerard found himself asking as Ray moved his sketch to the side; Gerard forced himself to forget about it, because if Ray didn't think it mattered, then surely it didn't? Ray knew more than him anyway: Ray certainly knew more about Frank than he did, and that was proved in the utter lack of texts and calls.

"A friend's house." And that was all the detail Gerard knew he was going to get as Ray got to his feet and grabbed a jacket from the hanger. "I'm going for a smoke: you'll be ready when I'm finished, won't you? Dress up pretty, Gerard, because you are."

And he blushed again, before making his way towards the bedroom and looking down at his sweatpants and oversized shirt- well, they were Ray's, but it didn't matter, did it?

With the privacy of a closed door, Gerard faced his reflection in the mirror and gave himself a shrug, before ridding himself of his clothes, and facing himself once again: he was nothing special, he knew that, and he even wondered if Ray was lying to him when he called him pretty.

But if he knew anything, it was that Ray called him beautiful much more than Frank ever had, and that was a thought that stayed with him as he put on a pair of jeans and a tight fitting shirt.

He couldn't look himself in the mirror and describe himself as pretty, no matter how hard he tried, no matter what clothes he wore- he just couldn't do it, he... he needed Ray to tell him that: he needed someone.

Gerard wondered what that said about him as he grabbed his cellphone from the side, pocketing it without even checking the screen, because by now, he just knew that Frank hadn't called.

As he made his way outside of the apartment, Ray finished a phone call and stubbed his cigarette out. "Beautiful." He added in response to Gerard’s outfit, and the artist blushed again, just like Ray knew he would.

Not another word was shared throughout the duration of the car ride: Ray focused upon driving, or something, and Gerard occupied with the city around him whirring past far too quickly: he thought about the world around him - he thought about his life, he thought about his apartment, he thought about Mikey.

"I miss my brother." Gerard finally found the courage to speak as Ray pulled into the driveway of a big house in a neighbourhood he didn't recognise.

"The coke addict?" Ray raised his eyebrows at that, only meeting Gerard's gaze in the front mirror. Gerard nodded. "You're too good for him." Ray smiled, and it was a smile Gerard returned, albeit with reluctance. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah." Gerard let out a sigh, and Ray opened the car door.

"Come on."

And with that, all thoughts of Mikey were forgotten in favour of an extravagant house and people Gerard didn't know and had a feeling he really wouldn’t like.

-

Bert McCracken was just a little stoned, just a little drunk, and very much out of it, but even in a state like that, he knew that this was just about the worst 'party' he'd ever been to.

It was entirely too posh for his style, and Jeph had only dragged him here because the guy knew a good dealer would be here, and Jeph was like an over excited, 'edgy' eighth grader who genuinely thought drugs were cool.

Bert was content with a little pot, and sitting in the corner staring at some guy's ass until that guy eventually noticed and slept with him or something. Although, with being Bert McCracken, it would suggest that he was a fan of cocaine, he really far more suited Bert McWeeden, as stupid as that sounded.

However, he soon noticed a familiar face across the room, and an uncomfortable expression upon it.

Bert didn't exactly know whose party, let alone, whose house this was, but he had suspicions that it was that guy with the blonde hair and the beard and the badly fitted suit. Bert even felt personally offended by that guy's suit, he might even Bert McSmacken, but that required getting up, and Bert was very, very stoned and in no state to get up for anyone-

Except perhaps one person.

The one guy that Bert knew all too well: the one guy that a certain curly haired dude was holding all too close to his side: the one guy who was looking around far too nervously to be okay.

And Bert wasn't exactly Mother Theresa, but Gerard Way had both a cute butt and a cute face, and there was no chance that the curly haired little shit by his side was stealing that from him- hey, where even was Frank?

Bert stopped for a moment, remembering his conversation with Frank from a few days ago, and glancing back to the curly haired asshole, and finally connecting the pieces.

He wondered if Frank would let them have a threesome or something if he got him his boyfriend back.

Hey, it was worth a shot, wasn't it?

And with that logic, Bert McCracken got up from his seat in the corner of the room, and forgot all about Jeph and his stupid heroin addiction in favour of a cute boy and the possibility of a threesome.

Gerard seemed to notice Bert as he approached, and really, Bert had no idea just what Gerard thought of him, but in comparison to a guy holding him like that, he easily looked like a fucking angel.

"...so Ray, I should really show you my new swimming pool, like for real, that shit's shaped like a cock." The blonde hair dude in the ridiculous suit's conversation came into earshot as Bert casually approached them, and at this point, Gerard was staring at him.

"Are you okay?" Bert mouthed at Gerard, and really, he could see the tears in his eyes and just how tightly 'Ray' was holding him, and found no need to answer that question.

"I would, but... Gee, hey-" Ray spun around to face Bert, and he almost thought he was going to get punched right then and there, but, no. "Can you watch my boyfriend for a moment? He's knew to this kind of thing, I don't want him to get taken advantage of, I'm just I’ll be one minute."

And Bert was nodding furiously, and grabbing Gerard tightly like he might fade away before Ray was even into the next room. "What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?"

"I-" Gerard just broke out sobbing before he could stop himself, and Bert looked up, shaking his head, and noticing Jeph finally return from some corner of the house.

"Doesn't matter, we're getting you out of here. You can explain in the car, if you want. Jeph!" Bert yelled for the guy, who rolled his eyes, making his way over to the two of them.

"W-what?" The guy slurred, raising his eyebrows at Gerard.

"We're going now, I'll drive, because, well, can you even walk?"

"I-I'm not leaving." Jeph grinned; making no secret of the fact that he was checking Gerard out.

"Just give me your fucking car keys, because some asshole is going to come back in like one minute and probably beat the shit out of Gerard here, okay?"

"Consensual beating?" Jeph raised one eyebrow, and Bert firmly shook his head, grabbing the car keys, and then Gerard's hands, before practically running out of the place with Gerard in tow.

The two didn't stop running until the car doors were locked, and they were off down the road.

"Is Frank really such a bad guy?" Gerard found himself asking, as Bert sped down the fucking road: not really going anywhere, just away. "Ray said he's horrible and manipulative, and I feel like he has been, like he hasn't even texted me once since I went missing - he doesn't care."

"If he didn't care then why did he break down in front of me and scream at me asking where you were the other day, when he finally got home." Bert let out a sigh, and wondering how someone like Gerard had ever gotten involved with these kind of people in the first place. "He's sorry, and he really does love you, Gerard. He bought you flowers: Frank doesn't do flowers."

"What kind of flowers?"

"Roses. Fucking red motherfucking roses from Frank Iero: you've gotten Frank Iero to fall for you, Gerard Way, let me tell you something, you've practically broken the motherfucking universe, and you are, in fact, worth so much more than guys like Ray, guys like me, guys like Frank, even. But I think he's going to kill me if he ever finds out that I told you that, so tell him that you love him back, alright?"

-


	20. Pete Wentz's Capri Sun And Vodka Cocktail

"You're kind of cute, or something." Pete Wentz was of course severely drunk and Mikey Way was left to deal with the little emo baby he'd been reduced to as a result of that.

"Or something?" Mikey raised one eyebrow, taking the glass of wine out of Pete's hand as the 'gang leader' snuggled into his side.

"Hot." Pete added with a smirk; he was far too proud of himself and he was most definitely making no secret of it. "That's the something."

"So am I hot, or just 'kind of hot'?" Mikey asked, not even sure why he was bothering, but he was pretty certain that at this point, Pete was going to pass out and sleep for the next seven hours at any point in the next fifteen minutes.

"Extremely hot." Pete corrected him, again smirking like a motherfucking idiot. "If you were Nando's chicken, you'd be extra extra hot with peri peri sauce."

"And what would you be? Lemon and herb? Plain?" Mikey rolled his eyes, leaving Pete to scowl in some sort of exaggerated offense.

"No, I was wrong, you'd be extra hot - one extra, and I'd be extra, extra hot - two extras, because, because, fuck it, come on, you know what I mean, you're not blind after all." Mikey glared at him in disbelief, and mainly because, well, Pete Wentz was a motherfucking idiot, but Mikey couldn't deny that he had developed a certain fondness for the emo wreck he was totally not cuddling with right now. "Okay, okay, realistically, I'm a medium at best, but you're extra, extra, extra hot, like they'd have to make a whole damn new sauce to cater to just how fucking hot you are."

"I tell you something, Pete, no one has ever flirted with me by comparing me to Nando's chicken before." Mikey smiled to himself, his gaze fixated upon the locked front door of his home, and he tried his best not to think of Alicia and her cousin in hospital who she'd gone to see, and Mikey was technically having an affair right now, but only technically because cuddling and talking about Nando's was hardly comparable to being fucked up the butt, but... butt... fuck it. Whatever.

"We should go to Nando's, like a date, or something." Pete grinned up at Mikey, who promptly shook his head, because he reckoned Pete was so drunk right now that he couldn't even walk.

"It's one in the morning, Pete." And there was also that, which was far better to argue with because Pete wasn't going to tell him to fuck off and that he was wrong after Mikey told him the time, and then of course, bet him on it and fall over and break his legs or something, and then they'd have to go to the hospital and it was one in the morning and he was going to have to explain to Alicia just why he was with a drunk, gay emo at one in the morning when she was out of town.

"McDonald's then, because they don't give one single fuck you can turn at three in the morning and order four milkshakes and they won't give one single fuck I promise you I have done it before." Mikey wrote this off as a story that he didn't particularly desire to know any much more about, and really, chances were that it was better off that way.

"How about we just go the fuck to bed? It's one in the morning, Pete." Mikey reminded him, of course, having little hopes about what he was saying making any sense to the guy whatsoever, because well, this was Pete Wentz.

"Do you have any Capri Suns? I want one." Pete chose to ignore Mikey's suggestion completely, and well, let's just say that Mikey wasn't all that surprised.

"Pete, as a grown man without children, I don't tend to keep Capri Suns in my house, just casually, you know?" And Pete looked wholeheartedly disappointed in him.

"We're going to buy some." Pete didn't even pose it as a question this time, springing to his feet, and much to Mikey's surprise, staying there without dying, which looked to be a good start already.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, you know?" Mikey couldn't exactly talk though, because as we all know, it wasn't him, but his brother who was a world renowned pioneer of motherfucking ideas.

"I like Capri Suns: you can suck on them. I need something to suck." Pete's eyes fell to Mikey's crotch in the least discreet gesture known to mankind ever. "Exactly, how big is your cock?"

"Pete-" Mikey spluttered, choking, already, his eyes widening in surprised, because he was so fucking sober in comparison to Pete.

"I want to get a tattoo above my cock that's like one of those signs you get on packaging where it's like 'warning choking hazard', but without the 'not suitable for children under three years' bit because well, I'm not a pedo, at least I hope so anyway, because if I was, well, my whole life would be fucked, wouldn't it?"

"Pete, I really think you should go to bed-"

"You know, what if you are a pedo? What do you even do? Like you can't exactly just go and tell your mum 'hey I like kids', like what the fuck are you supposed to do about it? Mikey, tell me, what are you supposed to do?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Mikey exclaimed, shaking his head firmly, and wondering if just letting Pete suck him off would ensure that he just went the fuck to bed before he accidentally ended up killing the both of them or something.

"You were glasses: you're clever."

"I'm not quite sure that's how it works, you know?" Mikey raised his eyebrows, grabbing Pete's hand and pulling him back down onto the sofa. "Just go to sleep, Pete, okay? We can work this all out in the morning, okay?"

"You promise me when can Google what to do if you're a pedophile?" Pete stressed, meeting Mikey's gaze with a sincerity that kind of concerned him.

"I promise." Mikey sighed, brushing Pete's fringe out of his face, which was exceptionally difficult, considering just how goddamn emo Pete was, but eventually, Mikey managed it. "You're an idiot, you know?"

"Rude." Pete mumbled, his words muffled and pressed into Mikey's side.

"But you're my idiot, you know?" Mikey added, smiling to himself in the darkness, because he was so utterly fucked, especially if Alicia came home before they woke up, but whatever, right now, he couldn't give a fuck.

"I know..."

And with that, Pete Wentz had passed out in Mikey Way's arms and everything was just so romantic, besides the slight crisis Mikey was having silently, but otherwise, they were practically Romeo and Juliet, except of course, they weren't dead...

-

Gerard wasn't exactly sure when he'd woken up.

Gerard wasn't exactly sure when he'd fallen asleep either.

It was all one big blur of the outside world rushing past the car window, and soon enough Gerard dared to wonder just how long Bert had been driving for, and in turn, just where they were going.

He tried to convince himself that everything was fine, but there was something in the pit of his stomach that just wouldn't settle.

He knew he should trust his gut instinct, but really, he didn't know what to do: his head spinning like crazy and he pulled his face away from the icy cold surface of the window and brought his gaze to the man beside him in the driver's seat.

The man. The man wasn't Bert.

And Gerard knew instantly from the curly hair that the man beside him in the driver's seat was Ray Toro.

And just like that, Gerard stopped breathing; his body running out of oxygen as his organs yelled and squirmed from inside him before shriveling into nothingness as his head slammed back against the window: out cold. As cold as the window itself.

And then, Gerard woke up.

But he didn’t wake up in Bert's car, and he wasn't sure whether he was simply gladder that he'd just been dreaming or that he'd woken up in the wrong spot of reality. Perhaps he'd never even woken up at all.

He considered the possibility as he sat up, finding himself under a blanket he didn't recognise, on a sofa he didn't recognise, in a living room he didn't recognise. And as he met his well rested, almost content, well face in the mirror, he didn't even recognise himself.

Of course, he didn't have too long to get too philosophical about this, before the comfort of the surrounding darkness was poisoned with a rectangular dagger of light creeping in from under the doorway. And footsteps. And then, the door opening itself, and Gerard was squinting little the pathetic little goth baby he was.

"Sorry- I didn't mean to wake you." The voice was Bert's and Gerard instantly knew it to be so, and really, never had Bert McCracken brought anyone that kind of comfort.

"It's fine. I'm awake already." Gerard mumbled, stretching a little and sitting up, and just praying that this really was Bert's living room and not another fucked up dream.

"Okay." Bert let out a sigh, switching the lights on and making his way to the sofa to sit beside Gerard. "You sleep okay? No bad dreams or anything?"

"No, I'm fine." And it wasn't even deliberate: lying was just some sort of weird second nature to Gerard. "I can't exactly remember what happened after we left that party though."

"Nothing much." Bert shrugged it off, pushing Gerard's fringe from his face and tucking it behind his ears: a gesture that Gerard shouldn't have allowed him to do, but somehow felt right in the circumstances, and maybe that was okay, but Gerard definitely didn't care enough to debate its morality at this time in the morning. "I drove you here, to my house."

"Why not to Frank?" Gerard asked, shuffling a little closer to Bert as he did so.

"Because where do you think the first place Ray's going to look is? Oh yeah, your house and for your boyfriend. He doesn't know me, he doesn't know where I live, so you'll be safe here for a few days until this blows over, okay?" Bert met him with a smile, and really, it even seemed genuine, which kind of surprised the both of them.

"Can I like call Frank and tell him I'm okay?" Gerard asked, pleading face in full swing. "I haven't spoke to him in ages now..."

"Of course, I- Ray didn't let you speak to him, did he?" Gerard shook his head, and Bert looked like he was going to punch something.

"He never called or texted though, so it's not that bad... I think he's kind of... I don't know... angry with me or something?" Gerard shrugged it off, leaning against Bert again, in a manner that probably wasn't appropriate considering Frank Iero's existence, but Gerard was kind of lonely and kind of sad and Bert McCracken was the first kind of comfort he'd received in far too long now.

"I promise you he did- fuck- Ray's fucking deleted them or blocked his number or something, Jesus Christ..." Bert shook his head, pulling Gerard in closer to his side. "You don't deserve these kinds of guys, okay? You don't deserve this kind of life, Gerard, I promise you that and I mean it wholeheartedly."

"I guess..." Gerard shrugged, not entirely convinced by Bert's claims, but he was in no state to protest against them. "I want to call my brother too... I miss him. Can I borrow your phone... mine's out of battery probably-"

Bert snatched it out of his grasp as he pulled it from his jeans pocket, and well, Gerard hadn't been expecting that to say the least.

"He can track this." Bert stood up, checking the phone and breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that it had indeed run out of battery: perhaps shitty iPhone battery life was good for something after all? "I'm sorry, Gerard, but we have to get rid of it, okay?" Gerard nodded, not really having been all that attached to his cellphone in the first place. "You can use mine now, though, look you call who you want to call, and I'll go and take this phone and drop it in a dumpster around the block or something, okay? I'll be like five minutes."

Bert placed his cellphone into Gerard's palm before making his way out of the house, locking the front door behind him, and effectively locking Gerard in here, which made his stomach twist into an array of knots, but it was fine; he knew it was fine - it had to be fine.

Anyway, he'd missed Frank like hell and was a little caught up with the matter of getting his fingers to stop trembling long enough for him to dial the number, and not have some form of heart attack in the impatient wait between dial tones.

He took a moment to consider what Bert had said about Frank, and about Ray, and about guys like them, and about Gerard himself, and really, it felt kind of off, but Bert had no motivation to lie to him, or at least Gerard had convince himself of that, and mainly for purposes of retaining his sanity, because this whole mess with Ray and Frank left him stressed out and entirely unsure what to believe.

-

Frank had slept at Pete's for the last two nights.

Not in Pete's bed, as the 'gang leader' had hoped for, but it was good enough, and it was someone to pass him the beer in the mornings, and well, it had certainly put a smile on Lindsey's face when she made her way in through the backdoor.

"Pete, I really don't think mixing orange Capri Sun and vodka is the best of ideas." Was the other thing that Lindsey had done as she closed the backdoor behind her: her eyes widening in shock as they fell upon Pete concocting the new 'cocktail' in the kitchen.

"Shut up about ideas, Lindsey, I'm emotionally unstable, right now." Pete groaned, stirring the 'cocktail' furiously, as Lindsey waved at Frank, who hadn't moved from where he'd curled up like a burrito on the sofa for the past four hours or something.

"No, Pete, you're just emo." Lindsey rolled her eyes, deeming it best just to leave Pete to alcoholic madness, and made her way towards Frank, or well, to put it better, the burrito on the sofa. "You okay, Frankie?"

"No, Gerard's not returning any of my fucking calls or any of my fucking texts. I think he hates me." Frank stopped staring into space and having a casual existential crisis long enough to let his gaze meet Lindsey's. "I genuinely think he hates me."

"That's bullshit, Gerardo is in fucking love with you, Frankie boy, and you know it!" Pete added from the kitchen, which was of course very, very helpful indeed.

"He's even read my texts though, he just never replies and it's fucking killing me." Frank groaned, pulling out his cellphone to show Lindsey, as if he felt the need to prove his point or something. "Look, I-" Frank was cut off as the device began to vibrate in his hand, and no, he hadn't accidentally opened the vibrator app that Pete had installed for him last week, someone was fucking calling him.

"Fucking answer it, Jesus-" Lindsey exclaimed, reaching across to press the accept call button for Frank, and then the one for speakerphone as he continued to remain frozen in some sort of fear of it being Ray who picked up, but these weren't the kind of worries he could share: not even with Lindsey's.

"Frank?" Gerard's voice burst into the room: distorted by the shitty speaker on the phone, but to Frank, now stunned into silence, it felt like the oxygen he needed to finally get his heart beating again.

It was the first breath of air after nearly drowning, it was the light switch finally turning on as you wake from a nightmare and stumble for it in the dark, it was the hope in the world, and it was enough to render Frank into a state of silence for long enough to ensure that Gerard assumed he'd died or something.

"Frank? Are you there-"

"Yeah, he's here... I think he's having some sort of breakdown, though." Lindsey ended up answering for Frank, and well, Gerard was just as relieved to hear her voice as he would have been Frank's. "Frank, fucking speak, you asshole."

"I-I-I-.... fuck- Gerard, I'm so sorry- I... I... I really am I-" Frank was near crying at this point, and that really wasn't something he felt comfortable doing in a room with Pete Wentz in, let alone a room with drunk Pete Wentz in.

"Frank, it's fine, I- I- I'm sorry... I was the one who got myself into this fucking mess... I- I- I..." Gerard trailed off, biting his lip and trying his best not to cry.

"Gerard, where are you? What's happening? Are you okay?" Frank found himself asking about a million questions at once as he suddenly founding himself remembering that Ray Toro existed.

"I'm at Bert's house, I'm fine, everything's fine, I-"

"I thought you were with Ray- fucking Ray, I-"

"Ray?" Lindsey's eyes widened, and really she hadn't planned upon joining in on this phone call, but Frank had mentioned Ray once or twice when he was incredibly drunk, and Lindsey had already heard more than enough.

"I was, but... but I was at this party with Ray, or something, and then Bert got me out of there and I'm at his now, and it's all fine, Bert's been really nice, though Ray was nice too, and he said you were horrible, and he made me believe it and I'm sorry, I really am but my head's such a mess right now."

"What did Ray say about me?" Frank found himself asking before he could stop himself, and really this was not somewhere he wanted to go, but he was quickly realising that he had very little choice in the matter.

"He said you dated, and you like cheated on him, and were manipulative or-"

"He can fucking talk- fuck, Gerard, don't ever go near that guy, okay? I'll explain more later, okay, but like trust me on this one. Fuck, do you know the address you're at now? I need to see you, I love you so much, I'm sorry."

"I don't know the address, I'll ask Bert when he comes back-" And there we go, wonderful, totally coincidental timing. "He's back now." Gerard added before pulling the phone away from his face and turning to face the figure who'd just opened the door.

Gerard's grin was wide with excitement form his conversation with Frank, and he was full of hope that maybe, just maybe everything was going to be okay again, but that excitement, that hope, that happiness was soon crushed into a million pieces when Gerard really laid his gaze upon the man who'd just walked through the door.

Because he'd come to find that it wasn't Bert at all.

The man at the door was none other than Ray motherfucking Toro.

But this time, Gerard stood there motionless, because this time, he couldn't just wake up: it wasn't just a dream.

-


	21. pilots (yes i'm going to make this pun again)

Gerard stood frozen upon the spot for entirely far too long: unable to even think, let alone breathe, let alone _move_ , and goddamn, he was certain of the fact that there was absolutely nothing he could to save himself at this point.

He was fucked: most utterly fucked, and it was most definitely his fault; Gerard wasn't even sure why or what he could have possibly have done to deserve this fate, but part of him deep down just _knew_ that he did, and that that was that.

Ray smiled at him from across the room: a genuine kind of welcoming smile that fucked with Gerard's head and made him even want to trust the guy he'd been running from- but _technically_ Bert had kidnapped him, and- fuck, Gerard didn't know who he could trust anymore at all, and that really wasn't helping matters.

And with a head as fucked up as his, he wasn't even sure if he could trust himself at this point, and that was the biggest mess of all.

"It was so horrible of him to steal you away from me like that." Ray stepped forward, reaching his hand out for Gerard to take, but the artist remained frozen, and unable to respond, even if he had wanted to. "But I've got you back now, and we're good now, so that's okay. I'm not mad at you, I promise, baby."

Gerard nodded, his words drying up in his throat as he struggled to force them through his lips, and it was all a trap, and if Gerard knew anything, he knew that he wasn't going to make it out of this mess with even a drop of sanity remaining.

"Gerard?" Ray continued, stepping closer to him: curious as to why Gerard hadn't shown any emotion or well, _anything_ at all. "Are you okay?"

Gerard shook his head before he could think about anything, and Ray was stepping forward and pulling him into a hug within seconds. 

"Tell me what's wrong, come on, I'll make it better." Gerard shook his head, finally regaining control of his movements, or at least as much as he could, and pulling away from Ray, his whole body trembling as he did so.

"No-no... _no_... please... _no_..." Gerard continued to shake his head, stepping away from Ray and eventually backing into the opposite wall of the room.

"Gerard? What's wrong?" Ray exclaimed, looking him up and down with a kind of genuine concern that unsettled Gerard completely. "Just, _please_ , I won't hug you if you don't want, okay? But I need to know: I can't help you if I don't."

"What if I don't want you to help me?" Gerard spoke after a moment: his voice small and somewhat unexpected by the both of them. "I don't." He added with his sudden gained confidence. "Don't help me, Ray, leave me alone."

"What? With the guy who _kidnapped_ you?" Ray spoke as if the notion was absolutely ridiculous, and well, in his mind, it kind of was. "No chance, Gerard: I care about you, I'm going to look after you. You know that, don't you?"

"What if I don't want you to?" Gerard continued, his confidence growing with every word, and well, Ray wasn't exactly a fan of this.

"You've got to let me help you, Gerard, otherwise you'll never get better-"

"Get better?" Gerard's eyes widened, Ray's words catching him by surprise. "I'm not sick, I-"

"You're not sick, but you're broken: you trust people too easily - Bert, Frank, everyone, and you're going to hurt yourself in a world like this, and it hurts me to see you mess up like this, and believe me, Gerard, I just want to help you, and you pushing me away breaks my heart."

Gerard paused for a moment, his gaze hitting the floor: utterly clueless as to what to believe at this point. "Bert said that you're a bad person." He paused for a moment, looking up to meet Ray's gaze before continuing. "He said that I deserve better than you-"

"You deserve the _world_ , Gerard, of course you do. No one could argue with that, and if they even tried to, then I promise you that they're, well, a fucking idiot." Ray broke into a smile at that, but Gerard remained unsure.

"Why did you delete Frank's texts and calls from my phone?" He asked it bluntly, because fuck, if he was still fussed with being polite at this point, then he really was the biggest idiot in the whole goddamn world.

"Because it's _Frank_ , and he's the most manipulative person in the whole goddamn world- look, he... he'd convince you that you should go back to him, and you _would_ , you fucking would, because you're Gerard and you're nice and you trust people too easily." Ray let out a sigh, glancing at the time before continuing. "Look, Gerard, let's just go home, okay? Bert's going to be back soon, and he's going to put up a fight for you, because you're beautiful, and who _wouldn't_?"

Gerard blushed, because he was Gerard and that was just what he did.

And Ray smiled, but Gerard shook his head, backing further against the wall in something like defiance.

"He just wants to fuck you, Gerard, come on, I hate to put it so bluntly, but he's just using you like some cheap whore, or at least he wants to, and I know you're better than that- look, I'm sorry, but with a pretty face like yours, people are going to use like that, and there's very little you can do about that, and I really am sorry."

"But not you?" Gerard raised an eyebrow, meeting Ray's gaze as he did so. "You don't look at me like that?"

"No, I see how beautiful you are, and what you're really capable of: I care for you- look, I wouldn't have come after you if I really didn't care about you, come on, it's obvious that I care, and I get that you're struggling to see the truth with the mess that these people have left you in, but-"

Ray fell to the floor with a strong kick to his shins.

Behind him stood Bert McCracken, glaring down at the asshole who'd walked the fuck into his home and lied to the most beautiful boy in the universe, who was of course, Gerard Way.

Bert landed a kick to Ray's face, leaving Gerard to wince as his nose cracked in an unnatural fashion. "Get the fuck out of my house, you hear me? Leave Gerard the fuck alone, you hear me?" Bert didn't even have the patience to wait for a response, before he was pulling Ray up by the collar and throwing him out of the front door and onto the driveway.

Bert locked the front door behind him, checking it twice, before turning to Gerard, who was still stood pinned against the back wall of the living room in shock. "You okay?"

"I... I... uhh... _yeah_..." Gerard nodded, but it was overall unconvincing, and well, what else could Bert expect with what he'd just witnessed.

"No seriously, he didn't like try anything or whatever?" Gerard shook his head. "Good, I'm sorry he got in, I'm sure, I locked the door, but I think his broken face might have gotten the message by now, but to keep you safe for sure, you are going to have to move."

"Not Frank's place?" Bert shook his head. "My friend Pete has a house, like he doesn't care, I think Lindsey practically lives there anyway: I could go there."

"Yeah, okay." Bert smiled at him, watching as Gerard pulled himself away from the wall. "We'll go tomorrow, okay? It's getting late now, and I don't like driving in the dark."

"You did when you were driving me away from that party." 

"That's different: that was you, that was important. I _needed_ to." Bert stressed his point, gesturing for Gerard to follow him into the kitchen as he did so.

"I'm not important, Bert, I'm just _Gerard_ \- I-"

"You stop right there, okay, because that's _nonsense_ and you know it." Bert's tone was stern, and well, Gerard reckoned he couldn't argue with it anymore, and resorted to simply watching as Bert made them coffee. "Did Ray tell you that you weren't important?" He asked after a minute or so of silence.

"No." Gerard shook his head, biting his lip as he did so. "He said I was beautiful and important... and stuff... I- he said you and Frank were just using me because I'm pretty and a whore."

"You're not a whore." Bert responded almost instantly in a way that caught Frank just a little by surprise.

"I-I-I... I sleep with people... I-"

"The whole world sleeps with people, and what some asshole has to say shouldn't have any effect on who you are as a person at all." Bert poured milk into the cups like they were smooth cheeks of Ryan Ross' ass.

"I guess." Gerard shrugged, his gaze falling to the floor. "You kind of cant help it, though, like... words mean more than we mean them to: always. Words... they stick, they stay forever, and they're permanent, in a weird kind of way."

"Yeah." Bert nodded, handing Gerard his coffee as the two took a seat at the table. "That doesn't mean they should be, though. You're not a whore, Gerard. You most certainly are pretty, but you're many things before that: your looks and who you fuck aren't the things that define you most as a person."

Gerard remained quiet for a moment, deep in thought. "I'm an artist. I paint, I'm good- well, Frank says I'm good... I struggle when it comes to appreciating my own work, but I guess we all do, anyway, I'm an artist, but when I was sketching, Ray didn't even seem to care."

"And that's the proof that he's a bad person: he appreciates you as an object, as beauty, as a painting in a frame, and not a living person, and you've got to understand that, Gerard." Bert stressed his words, meeting Gerard's gaze as he did so. "You're too quick to trust people, you know that, don't you?"

"Yeah." He exhaled, nodding a little as he did so. "I just need people, and I'm needy, and- I don't know... I just... I need attention."

"We're people: we all do."

"You're kind of different, though- you're like, you don't give a fuck, you're strong and you know what you're talking about... maybe you're the kind of person worth trusting."

"Gerard, I promise you, I'm really not." Bert responded with laughter, placing his coffee cup down on the table. "I'm just a pathetic addict who's too stoned to give a fuck most of the time. I'm sober right now, but that's because you're here, and making sure you're safe is more important than any kind of pill in the whole goddamn world."

"You really seem to think I'm something, don't you?" Gerard cracked a smile, just a little amused by how much enthusiasm Bert put into ensuring that Gerard knew just how much he meant to him.

"I'm not wrong though, am I?"

And Gerard shrugged, because he was biased: maybe he was, maybe he wasn't.

"I guess you're not."

"Here we go!" Bert exclaimed with the biggest fucking smile in the whole world. "Progress, acceptance: we're getting there, Gerard Way, we really are." Gerard nodded, smiling in return. "Seriously, you're the last good thing about this part of town, and I mean that."

"So, you really think I'm like... _genuinely_ beautiful?" Gerard added a few minutes later: having spent those aforementioned minutes deep in thought.

Bert nodded, turning to face Gerard before expanding verbally. "I really do, and it's not even just my opinion at this point, you are just genuinely _beautiful_ , Gerard. You have this cute smile, and an even cuter laugh, and quite possibly the most mesmerising eyes I've ever seen, and-"

And...

Before Gerard knew what he was doing, he was kissing Bert, and simultaneously, his heart was stopping, and starting again as Bert reciprocated, and then promptly failing altogether as Bert pulled his lips away, but left his forehead pressed up against Gerard's.

"Frank..." Bert uttered, biting his lip, and glancing down, fucking _anywhere_ but Gerard. "You shouldn't have done that."

"If you don't want me to kiss you, then you should stop telling me how beautiful and wonderful I am."

"Frank doesn’t tell you this?"

Gerard shook his head gently. "Not nearly in as much detail. Just that I'm pretty, and well, I can't dispute the fact that you mean it, and the fact that you care, and me and Frank are technically on a break, and I... I... I _need_ you."

"You're saying that because I'm the only one here."

"No, I'd say the exact same thing with the whole world watching, I promise."

"You don't mean that, Gerard."

"Let me prove it to you."

Bert's breath hitched, every part of his head screaming 'no', but every part of his body yelling the opposite, and it was heart over head in the end, with a quick and simple, "okay", before his lips were pressed back against Gerard's, and Frank Iero was nothing but a distance kind of memory.

-

Alicia made her way home in the early hours of the morning, reciting excuses in her head over and over as she traversed the street leading to her home, and really, she didn't have a clue as to what she could possibly be just about to walk in on.

She wasn't expecting anything really, after all, Alicia just didn't reckon that Mikey had it in him to actually even consider infidelity, but then again, she didn't put herself down as that kind of person either, but the amount of time she wasted away with her eyes locked onto Lindsey Ballato's tits begged the contrary.

It was a mess, but still she never deserved this mess, and despite having killed a man once, Alicia Simmons was just about the nicest person in this whole damn town, because, let's face it, this wasn't exactly a buzzing, caring community, was it?

But still, her heart fell still and silent in her chest as she unlocked the front door, and let her gaze fall upon the scene before her, and, _fuck_ , perhaps 'scene' was even an understatement, because the girl who'd killed a man was utterly speechless as she made her way home to see her boyfriend up against the wall, and another man on his knees before him.

Time seemed to tick by in slow motion until she finally stomached slamming the door behind her, which was nothing but wildly successful in alerting the two men to her presence.

" _Fuck_ -" Mikey exclaimed, his eyes widening as they fell upon his girlfriends; Alicia was more so astounded as opposed to disappointed, and really, neither of three people in the room had been expecting that. "Oh my god... I..."

The man on his knees stumbled to his feet, nearly falling onto Mikey as he did so, but what could really be expected of him in such a state? Very little, exactly, and the impression he painted wasn't exactly stellar, but Alicia was far more occupied with the fear in her boyfriend's eyes than the bruises on the knees of the man beside him.

"You can start with putting your cock away." Alicia finally managed to verbalise her feelings, and of course only managed to do so with a kind apathetic, cut throat sarcasm, because this was falling, this was lying, this was _cheating_ , and Alicia was crumbling into nothingness, but still, she couldn't quite help but feel as if she didn't exactly care as much as she should.

Mikey blushed an unflattering shade of pink as he hastily shoved his cock back inside his boxers, and pulled his jeans back up to his waist, and zipping his jeans up before turning to face his perhaps _ex-_ girlfriend.

And only in Mikey's lack of speech, had Alicia's attention diverted and fallen upon the shorter man beside him, and in that exact moment, her heart plunged right out of her chest, as her gaze fell upon the awkward apologetic smile of Pete motherfucking Wentz.

"Are you kidding me?" She scoffed, her eyebrows raised high: not entirely sure what the fuck she was supposed to think at this point, because this had quite easily been the last thing she was expecting here.

"I didn't know he was your boyfriend, Alicia." Pete shrugged it off, leaving Mikey to glance between the two with widened eyes.

"You two know each other?" The question practically asked itself; Mikey's lips remaining parted and slightly dopey in expression.

"Mutual friend." Alicia spoke first, and perhaps just to ensure that Pete didn't start blurting out a certain little anecdote involving an alleyway and a shotgun that Mikey couldn't possibly ever know about. "Lindsey Ballato."

"Oh..." Mikey trailed off, blushing a little as he settled into the realisation that everything had just become a whole lot worse. "I'm sorry?"

"Okay then." Alicia took off her jacket and hung it up, before turning to face the two again. "I'm looking for some sort of explanation here, because literally, I just _can't_ wrap my head around this. Honestly, Mikey, you just don't strike me as the type."

"What type? To cheat on you? Or for it to be a _guy_?" Mikey snapped, suddenly reckoning he had the nerve to get all defensive about this.

"The former. You wear girls jeans - that was kind of a dead giveaway, if I'm honest." She took a seat on the sofa, and gestured the two over to here. "Now, Pete Wentz, how the fuck did you end up in my house, and then how the fuck did you end up on your knees for my boyfriend?"

"Look, it was just a misunderstanding-" Mikey began, his cheeks flushing red in sheer terror relating to Pete even mentioning his slight coke addiction.

"How did you two even _meet_?" Alicia exclaimed, glancing between the two men with continued astonishment.

"Mikey, just fucking let me talk, okay?" Pete snapped, causing the two to jump a little, and Alicia's gaze to fall upon her boyfriend, who was firmly shaking his head at everyone's favourite emo gangleader. "Mikey has a little addiction... to _cocaine_..."

"What?" 

And Mikey could punch both of them right there. "It's _nothing_ , it's fucking nothing, and it's not like he's any better-"

"Look, we're friends, I'm trying to help him: he's not the type, he's really not, and then, _things_ happened, because I was a little drunk last night-"

"You stayed over?" Alicia exclaimed, shaking her head more and more with every word.

"I don't just go over and see people this early in the morning. Do you know me at all, Alicia Simmons?"

"I reckoned for blowjobs it was different." She raised her eyebrows, leaving Mikey sat beside her, trying his best not to have a fucking panic attack, and of course, failing spectacularly, because they weren't exactly something you could control.

"I'm not _Frank_ , okay, I'm not the whore in this situation, believe it or not!" Pete raised his voice as he got to his feet.

"Really? Fucking _really_?" Alicia was utterly convinced, and got to her feet in order to match Pete, however the two found themselves utterly neglecting the boy still sat pale faced, and short of breath, on the sofa.

"Fucking yeah, and it's not like you and Lindsey-"

"Don't fucking _start_. It's not like I've been eating her out, is it? Okay, maybe there was some mild flirting, but I never actually- this is just _different_ -"

"It's still being unfaithful, though, isn't it?"

"Not really-"

"Fucking admit it, I fucking dare you!"

"Fucking go ahead."

"I _will-_ "

However, Pete Wentz never quite got to, as Mikey fell to the floor with a resonating thud: out cold and with a nasty gash in the side of his head where he'd hit it against the corner of the coffee table.

And enough blood trickling from his head onto the living room floor, _enough_ blood perhaps to ensure that as he closed his eyes, he'd never open them again.

-

 


	22. Quite Possibly The Most Traumatising Chapter Ever

Mikey's body lay limp, and the slow, untrustworthy moving of his chest was no consolation in the fact that he most definitely was not going to be okay.

And Pete, and his fears: everything that had perhaps condemned the boy to a fate he could never deserve, because he'd done nothing, absolutely _nothing_ when compared to Pete and Alicia, at least.

_Cocaine_.

That could have very easily killed him in the end too, but it didn't quite get its chance, because the ignorance and selfish natures of the pair had been what had befallen Mikey to his fate, and they knew like they knew that they could never be sorry enough, that this was _not_ a fate that poor Mikey Way deserved.

_Cocaine_.

Did get a grasp at a chance of his demise, though, because cocaine and Pete Wentz's paranoia was what had kept the dying boy from a hospital bed.

He didn't reckon it was a particularly spectacular way to die either, but Alicia didn't see it that way, but Alicia didn't have much else to say as she remained silent and watched as Pete took charge, and watched as Pete ruined a life that could never deserve the fate that had befallen it.

Because Alicia really had loved Mikey, and this was an odd kind of heartache, to say the least, because it was sort of her fault, but she wasn't even sort of guilty, and Pete was going to kill him like this, but Alicia just let it happen.

It wasn't like she hadn't let someone die before, and it wasn't like she wasn't prepared to let it happen again, even if this time it was her ex-boyfriend, or well, perhaps still just _boyfriend_ , because as long as he kept breathing, even if just barely, she'd grant him that luxury.

This wasn't the way anyone should die: laid out on the backseat of a car as Pete Wentz stormed through about six red lights on his way across town, on his way home, because Pete was scared and Pete couldn't chance fate and Pete couldn't risk his own safety for the life of someone he was supposed to love.

And after Pete turned past the hospital without even a glance, Alicia knew she'd never be able to look at him in the same way again.

Not that it mattered, of course, because with Mikey dead, or at least he was close now - there was no hope of him surviving this; she was a realist, and even a slightly tipsy and hopeful Pete Wentz knew that too.

Perhaps the hospital wasn't even worth bothering with.

Alicia brushed the thought aside as she focused on the world outside and her way out of her, because with Mikey gone, there was very little tying her down to this place and to the crimes she'd committed, because Alicia had gotten away clean so far, and she just wasn't sure as to how long that kind of luck would last.

Mikey's luck, especially, had been minimal, and this all, this heart shattering car ride, and the stillness in the morning air could have been prevented if they only paid poor Mikey Way just a little more attention, but _still_ , Alicia wasn't guilty, or at least, she didn't feel that way, only biting hard on her bottom lip as Pete finally turned the car into the alleyway.

Neither of them cared that this probably wasn't the best place to park, slamming car doors behind them within seconds, as the two struggled to support Mikey's body as they carried him inside, as they carried him to his deathbed, and they both knew that, but carried him with the same kind of care and caution regardless, because he deserved that, at the very least.

The sofa.

The same sofa that Mikey had found himself on once before, however that time with a lot more vomiting and a hell of a lot less dying, and Pete wished for the same again as he stood there frozen, Alicia dashing to lock the door behind them.

They remained in the world's most uncomfortable silence as Pete knelt by Mikey's side, continuing to press the makeshift kind of bandage against the gash in his head, perhaps they could subdue the bleeding, but with the shallow, infrequent breaths, they both knew it was too late, but _still_ , Pete knelt there: one hand pressed against the bandage, and one hand finding its way to Mikey's, entwining their fingers, for one last time, and as Alicia stood there, in a horrific kind of silence.

Mikey lay there for a good few minutes: strangled breaths and uncomfortable twitches, before _anything_ happened at all. Pete remained knelt by his side in the exact same position, perhaps even breathing less than Mikey was, but of course, it was unlikely. And in much the same manner, Alicia's feet still remained glued to the floor, but she didn't share Pete's need for silence at all.

"He's not going to make it." And they both knew it, but Alicia's verbalisation was enough to snap Pete in two, but of course, once again, the two didn't seem to think at all about Mikey, and as to whether he might possibly be _hearing_ every single word still.

"I know." Pete responded after a moment: his words forced and his breathing heavy, and most importantly, his gaze never moving from Mikey's closed eyes.

"You're just hurting yourself more by hoping that he'll be okay, there's- you don't need to try and keep him breathing and not bleeding out, because regardless, he's _not_ going to make it, and we both know that." Alicia's words caught Pete by surprise, causing him to pull his gaze away from Mikey, and turn into wide, frightened, overly bright, teary eyes that met Alicia's in an odd mix between hopefulness and hatred. "You don't need to keep him alive and keep him hurting."

"I can't just- I _can't_ just... _leave_ him- I... this is my fault and this is my apology, and I'm going to hold his hand until he lets go." And Pete spoke with a kind of conviction and sincerity that Alicia had never even dreamed of before.

"It's awfully romantic, Pete, and I know- look, I hurt in the same way, I loved him too-"

"Stop using the past tense, he's not dead yet-"

"Right now, he's comatose at best, and he'll be dead soon enough, and you're just making it harder for the both of you - it doesn't have to be this hard, you _can_ let go, Pete, and you _need_ to, because when he does, I doubt you will too. You have to make the first move, you can't let this define you, Pete-"

"How the _fuck_ do you suggest that I make this any easier?" Pete's tone was snappy at this point, laced with an odd kind of spite that still wasn't quite out of place in his words.

Alicia thought nothing much of it, opening her handbag and sliding the pistol across the table that separated the two of them.

" _No_." Pete's response was instant and he was damn fucking sure of it too, but Alicia was hesitant to back down.

"Keeping breathing is hurting him too, you know the damage to his brain the blood has caused will be unbearably painful, and that's why he's comatose: his body is shutting itself down, his body is saving him, ready to let go, because that's the safest option at this point, and you're not letting it, you're not letting _him_."

"It's too sudden, it's not fair, he's not ready- _I'm_ not ready-"

Pete was crying: tears streaming down his cheeks with an utter lack of shame, and Alicia could empathise, she really could, but she'd already let go of her part of Mikey, and now it was Pete, and Pete only that was holding him down and tearing this all apart.

"Will you _ever_ be ready?"

" _No_." 

"Exactly." Alicia grabbed the pistol from the table, holding it loosely in her right hand as she made her way over to Pete and Mikey, even taking the liberty of kneeling down beside Pete before she offered him the pistol once more.

" _No_ \- I'm not... I'm not going to shoot him- I'm not going to put him down like some sort of _dog_ \- I- you know what? Maybe he will make it through this, he just needs more blood, doesn't he? I can- I'll fucking give him my _blood_ I-"

" _Pete_ -" She let out a sigh, grabbing his hand and shaking her head at him. "No, no he's not going to wake up now and lying to yourself is not going to make anything any easier: I _promise_ you."

"Can't I at least _try_?" He stressed, sobbing like a fucking maniac, but still with one hand pressed against the bandage, and one pressed against Mikey's.

"The likelihood is that you two aren't even the same blood type, Pete, I don't even know what blood type Mikey is, and if you give him the wrong blood that's only going to make things worse." Alicia paused, giving Pete a moment to let the reality sink in. "They could have done that at the hospital."

" _No,_ I'm not taking him there- _no_ , you just, _no_."

Because Pete would do _everything_ and _anything_ except the one thing that had the slightest hope of saving Mikey Way.

"It's too late now anyway."

" _I know_." Because deep down, Pete did know, and he knew it with every fibre of his being, and perhaps, just perhaps, that was exactly why it was so hard to let go.

"Then just take him and take _you_ out of your misery, please, Pete, _god-_ I..." Alicia sighed out, shaking her head as she offered him the pistol once more.

"I'd rather shoot myself than shoot him." The words left Pete's lips before he could think about what they really meant, and afterwards, he kind of just stayed there in an awful kind of silence, unable to gauge just how much he meant them. "I _love_ him."

"So do I." 

And Pete looked at Alicia like she didn't mean it, and just like that, she slapped him straight across the face, because, " _fuck you_ , Pete Wentz," but still, Pete's hands never moved from Mikey.

" _Stop_." She pleaded, attempting to pull Pete's hand away from Mikey's. "Please, do you not? _How_ do you not see what you're doing to him?"

"What have _I_ done? I'm not the one who wants to _shoot_ him!" Pete exclaimed, turning to Alicia with an unimaginable amount of hated in his eyes, and all for the boy that was just about dead now.

"Fine then, if you really think he'll survive, then let go and let him bleed out, let him die and make him hurt, because you think he deserves that: this wait, this _torture_ -" 

"I'm not letting him go, don't you _get_ that?" 

"No, no I don't, because I can't wrap my head around this kind of insanity, and we both _know_ that it's insanity, don't we, Pete, look, you- you _know_ , you _know_ what you're doing to him, and I reckon that the very moment you drove past that hospital without a second glance was the very moment that you condemned us all to this fate."

"No-"

"You can't turn back time, Pete, you can't take a different turn and you can't take him there, now, not anymore, and still, I reckon, even if we replayed that drive a million times over, you'd still end up here, we'd still end up like this... _every time_. You dug his grave, Pete, now bury him in it."

"I dug-  _I dug_? His _grave_? I- I-" Pete shook his head firmly, watching as Alicia reached out and took Mikey's other hand, placing the shotgun on the sofa beside Mikey.

"You don't have to let go of his hand, just of his head, just do it, Pete, he's _hurting_ , you know, you _know_ he is."

"Why does it have to be _me_? Why do _I_ have to do- why can't _you_?"

"Because I wasn't the one who turned away from the hospital, because I wasn't the one who went over to see him last night, because I wasn't the one who got him addicted to cocaine, because I wasn't the one who started this _mess_." She _pulled_ Pete's hand away from Mikey's head, placing the pistol between his fingers. "You started it, Pete, now _finish_ it."

He held the pistol with a certain unplaceable confidence, because in a way, Alicia was right: this was for _him_ , he _had_ to do this.

And with a sound, the world's _loudest_ sound, he did.

-

Pete Wentz never reckoned himself to be much of a murder.

Yet Pete Wentz had never reckoned himself to be much of a gang leader, either.

And yet, he was both, and the truth pulled his heart down to his feet.

He never fancied himself as much of a gravedigger, either, but there he stood in his backyard, the blackness of the night encasing him like some sort of sharp toothed, deadly blanket, as he put himself to work in the matter of disposing the two bodies on his hands.

The _two_ bodies, because you see, Pete hadn't exactly cared all so much for Alicia or her instructions.

Yet he seemed to be very keen on caring for her dead body, but perhaps that was just far more to do with the police risk, and the _smell_ , but still, of course, he placed Mikey's above hers in the grave, because even like this, he'd still matter more.

Pete was the definition of a mess at this point and he was well aware of it as he wiped a mix of sweat, tears, and eyeliner from his face, before beginning to shovel dirt back over the body of his late not quite boyfriend and his late not quite girlfriend.

Wow, he'd really fucked up their relationship, hadn't he?

But he'd pretty much fucked up his life in the process too so they were even or something.

_Fuck_.

Mikey was dead.

But the point was in the fact that still, despite this, Pete _hadn't_ shot him; he would _never_ do that, and he reckoned he'd take that promise to very moment he was laying in a grave above the two of them.

Mikey deserved more than this for certain, but he wasn't eager to just had the guy in and face the questioning: it just had to be like this.

If things could have gone the way Pete would have wanted them to, Mikey would be laying in a hospital bed and not his own grave at this point, but they hadn't.

Pete had finished it, at the very least; he'd finished it with a fucking bullet to Alicia's temple, and she'd stood there in shock, half living, half breathing for what felt like years, before Mikey's hand finally went cold in his, and Pete's whole world faded out into black like his existence was a movie.

Minutes later, he finally let go, and _fuck_ , fuck Alicia, because he _had_ and he always would have done, and with that he got himself a drink, and dug himself a nice big hole and buried the ex-lovers with care, and that was the very day that Pete Wentz's backyard became a cemetery.

Of course, even with the mess that he'd made buried six feet deep underground, Pete still had the matter of Lindsey Ballato to worry about, because she was most certainly going to wonder just what had happened to her not quite girlfriend, but Pete could ride this out and he could take this secret to the grave; he'd know nothing of it, and they'd watch the news together and he'd let the media cover the story of the missing boyfriend and girlfriend for him.

Lindsey would cry, and so would he, and perhaps he'd spend just a little too much time in his back garden, just glancing down at the slight mound in the dirt where the boy he loved lay with the girl who'd loved him.

Perhaps Alicia hadn't had to die, but Pete knew it was too late, and Pete had done _everything_ , he'd done everything and anything, except the one thing he couldn't do, to try and save Mikey, because fuck, there could have been a chance that he'd start breathing again, couldn't there?

But there wasn't, not in this turn of events at least, and Pete hated the matter of coming to terms with that, and with a breath of cold newfound cemetery air, he made his way back inside and made sure to drink himself as close to death as he could manage, because what else was there left for a guy like him at this point.

Because this wasn't how he should have turned out.

And Mikey shouldn't have died a crack addict- fuck, Mikey never should have been a crack addict.

And Pete should have never been a gang leader.

Perhaps he should have gone to university like his dad had suggested and become a fucking _accountant_ or something, and then maybe, just maybe, he could have met Mikey at that fancy office building he worked at, and perhaps like that they would have had a chance.

Pete smiled to himself at the thoughts of Mikey blushing and first dates that didn't involve nearly as much vomiting, and dear lord, they had never even _fucked_ , and it so wasn't fucking fair, and Pete started his third drink as Frank Iero slammed the back door behind him, successfully making Pete jump straight out of his fucking skin.

"Do you know where Gerard is?" Frank was angry, like practically fucking seething with anger, and Pete knew that this wouldn't bode well like he knew his own name.

"No."

"Yeah, he's with fucking _Bert McCracken_ and oh yeah the fucking _whore_ forgot that his boyfriend was on the phone didn't he, must have pressed mute on the phone as it slipped out of his hand or something when Ray arrived, but even if he couldn't hear that I was there, I heard every fucking word, and I fucking- I fucking _know_ what went on between him and that- fucking, they kissed, so yes, Bert McCracken _lied_ to and stole my fucking boyfriend, and goddamn, I could kill him right now, what do you say, Wentz?"

"No."

"No?" That had taken Frank by surprise, to say the least, but Frank didn't know about the bodies in the backyard and he was yet to notice the blood stain on the sofa and Alicia's shoes at the door.

"No. Not today, not now-"

"Fuck, Pete, how sober are you? Come on, drink up, and think later!" He grinned, taking a seat beside his friend and taking a swing of the beer. "Fuck- have you mixed Capri Sun into this?" Frank retorted in something like disgust, passing the beer back to Pete.

"Yeah, got a problem, Iero?" Frank watched in disgust as Pete downed it in one. "Is my elite taste in liquor too refined for you?"

"Since fucking when did cheap beer and Capri Sun become 'liquor'?" Frank rolled his eyes, lighting a cigarette. "Now come on, Pete, let's just fuck him up, what do you say?"

"Fuck it and fuck you, Frank, but _yes_."

-


	23. Nobody Likes This Chapter

Morning itself didn't feel real, and perhaps Gerard would have even preferred waking up alone, even in his current state, and that was one of utter confusion and discomfort, because this didn't feel real and it didn't feel right, but it _was_ , and Gerard couldn't deny that he was thankful that Bert was at least there to keep him company, or _sane_ at the very least.

Because he'd fucked up like this, and he'd fucked up big time; Frank mattered, and Frank would care, but it was too late now, and Gerard just rolled away in his best attempt to fall back asleep in the grave he'd dug himself, but before he could quite close the lid of his coffin, a voice.

A soft and sleepy, "hey _,_ " from the man in bed next to him, who stirred a little as the blankets had twisted and contorted frantically around Gerard's somewhat panicked form, and then, a perhaps slightly less calm and subdued, "Gerard?" in response to the lack of response from the man beside him; Bert _knew_ Gerard as awake, and Gerard _knew_ he was going to get away with just laying here forever, no matter how much he might want to.

"H-hey..." Gerard finally stumbled upon a response, pushing it hastily between his lips, almost choking on his own breath and anxiety, and there was very little hiding it as far as Bert was concerned at the very least.

"What's wrong?" He asked, moving in the covers so he was beside Gerard, who still remained stubborn with his back to Bert, however he made no move to object as the other man placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, before tentatively moving it down his back, stopping as it dipped in a little, and repeating his motions to bring his hand back up to Gerard's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze as he did so. "Come on, Gerard, tell me."

Gerard lay there in silence, just breathing, _just_ breathing, just existing, but not really living, not really there, before uttering the two most simple, expressionless words he could happen upon in a short space of time, "I'm okay."

"You're not." Bert's response was instant, much unlike Gerard's; Bert insistent that Gerard turned and faced him, or at least _spoke_ to him at the very least, but the artist didn't see things like that - he saw that he'd fucked up, he saw the mess he'd made, and more importantly.

Gerard saw the texts on his cellphone from Frank at three in the morning: the two simple texts that had thrown everything to shit; they said very little, but in that, still entirely far too much, enough to make Gerard's whole body ache, in fact, and perhaps even enough to have him cry, but he hadn't quite gotten that far yet.

_'You never hung up the phone.'_

The first text was sent at exactly three twenty four in the morning, and Gerard couldn't even imagine what sat Frank must have been when he'd sent it.

_'I heard every word and I know about you and him and I'm not happy, Gerard, I'm really not and you're going to find that out soon.'_

The second text was sent six minutes later, at three thirty precisely, and then _nothing_ : perhaps frank had fallen asleep at that point, but knowing the irrational gesture of Gerard's ex-boyfriend, it wasn't exactly ridiculous to suggest otherwise, in fact, it'd probably be ridiculous _not_ to.

"I'm not."

It had been a good few minutes since the silence had faded with the hum of conversation, but two simple words brought it all back, Bert almost jumping a little at Gerard's acceptance of his current mentality.

"Tell me why?" Bert suggested, pulling at Gerard's shoulder a little, in something like suggestion that the other man turn and face him, however, Gerard wasn't exactly inclined to, or just didn't quite get the hint; Bert was unable to tell.

"It's..." Gerard paused, rolling over onto his back, and letting out a sigh as his gaze fell upon the ceiling of Bert's bedroom. "You're not going to like it."

"You're upset, of course, I'm not going to like it." Bert let out a sigh, shaking his head, and moving so he was laid down beside Gerard, their sides pressed close together in a way that Gerard really should have protested, but _didn't_. "But, I'm not Ray, and that doesn't mean I'm angry or that I hate you, or that you've done anything wrong, that just means I'm sad, and that's not your fault- that's not anyone's fault."

"Just look at my phone." Gerard said after a moment, finding himself almost incapable of speaking aloud and just _explaining_ the mess that they were something like six feet deep in at this point. "It's on the bedside table, the conversation is open... it's... pretty... well, actually, it's anything _but_ pretty."

Bert paused for a moment, catching Gerard's gaze, before pushing himself up enough to reach across Gerard's chest and grab his phone from the table, holding the device above his head a little as he unlocked it and glanced over the two messages from Frank.

"I'm just a little confused..." Bert admitted, reading the messages over for something like the seventh time.

"I was on the phone to Frank when Ray arrived, but I dropped the phone out of shock... I guess I didn't notice that the call was still going... I guess we don't know _when_ he hung up at all-"

"So he heard us... when we kissed and-..." Bert paused, his gaze somewhat distant in nature. "And he's angry at _you_?"

"Yeah, I guess." Gerard nodded, blushing a little as Bert returned his gaze to meet Gerard's.

"That's not fair: you're not together, you're not cheating, and _he's_ the one who broke up with you in the first place - it's fucking ridiculous, and dear god, Gerard, promise me that you aren't just going to let people treat you like this?"

Gerard paused for a moment, looking down. "Like what?"

"Like he fucking owns you, like somehow, you're not allowed to be with anyone else after you've broken to, even if you want to- Frank Iero doesn't _own_ you, look, Gerard, the notion of the thought itself is even ridiculous. You're a _person_ , nobody fucking owns you."

"But he loves me." Gerard piped up, looking up at Bert with something like confusion.

"If he loves you, he should want you to be happy, and just because he loves you doesn't mean that you're under any obligation to love him back, you got that?"

Gerard paused for a moment, nodding a little. "What do you think he means by 'going to find out soon'?"

"Fuck, I don't know, but if he fucking tries anything, I swear to _God_ , I will _kill_ him." And Gerard didn't reckon for one second that Bert was joking.

"Why would you do that for me?"

"Because, Gerard, you just don't get it yet, and I reckon you just won't get it at all, but you're special, you're so special, and so important. You matter, and you matter so fucking much."

"No one's really told me that I matter before."

"That's fucked up, Gerard, honestly, because dear god, you seriously _do_."

-

Lindsey Ballato bit her lip, her knees shaking a little as she sat on the sofa, her cellphone in one hand as she watched the TV screen, the sound turned down to one or two; she'd heard it all at this point, she'd heard _too_ much, in fact, and she was getting dangerously close to crying, and she fucking needed to speak to someone right now.

Because it wasn't true; it couldn't be true, and deep down, Lindsey knew that, but she needed every last shred of conformation she could get, and with several missed calls to Alicia, Pete, and Frank, she found herself in absolutely no luck.

_Fuck_ , what could they all be doing right now that was so fucking important they couldn't pick up the phone or even text her back, because Lindsey was absolutely anything but okay, and she was pretty certain she was going to fucking break any moment soon.

Lindsey didn't quite know what breaking involved yet, but she reckoned that perhaps it was better if she just didn't find out, because whatever it entailed, it didn't sound particularly good at all.

She woken up an hour or two ago: eaten breakfast, and turned on the TV, finding herself faced with the news report: a missing persons report for an Alicia Simmons and a Mikey Way, and _fuck_ , they couldn't be dead- this was some- fuck, they'd gone on a road trip or just a _trip_ or something, or Pete had fucking had some stupid idea, and nothing _bad_ had happened to them at all, and she was okay, and everything would be fine, and Lindsey wasn't crying.

Lindsey _couldn't_ cry, because Lindsey wasn't the crier, she was the hand to hold.

But now, the very moment when she needed a hand of her own, she was alone, and she had absolutely no one but her own tears and the news report on repeat as she clutched the phone in her hand: dial tone after dial tone but with not even a hope of luck whatsoever.

It was a lost cause; she was a boat lost out at sea, and she wasn't even the one in danger here, because Alicia and Mikey could easily been drowning in a tsunami right now, but she was complaining about little more than high tide.

But it was the morning, after all; she was all nerves, and she knew exactly what Pete would say when she called him already. He'd say that it was nothing, because that was what it was, and he'd tell her to drink until she stopped crying, or just until she couldn't tell the difference between the alcohol and her tears anymore.

That wasn't exactly her style, but she was short on ideas, and found herself placing her phone down on the coffee table, and turning the TV onto standby, before getting to her feet, and stumbling at least twice on her way to the kitchen and the nearest glass, and the first bottle of wine she happened upon, because perhaps Lindsey Ballato liked to think she had just a little more class than Pete Wentz did.

It was little more than a frivolous matter, and something to keep her self confidence high, but right now her mind was preoccupied with just a little more than that.

But they weren't dead, fuck, they probably weren't even missing, and fuck they had to be so fucking okay, because dear god if they were, it couldn't be like this; it couldn't be some Romeo and Juliet bullshit, because Lindsey just wouldn't have that, because Alicia wasn't the perfect Juliet and Mikey Way was far from Romeo, and there was no fucking way that Lindsey fancied herself as Paris, and there was no fucking way she was about to compare her life to Romeo and fucking Juliet.

But she just did, and she was crying too.

She'd gone soft - that was it; she'd just gone soft, so incredibly soft, and so incredibly stupid, because that was all she was being, especially in the matter of leaving her phone on silent and on the coffee table where she couldn't see or hear it ring, because like this, she'd sort of condemned herself to her kitchen table and this bottle of wine with empty promises that she couldn't keep for herself.

But perhaps, even if just for the time being, it was enough to get her by.

And perhaps that was all life was about, just getting by, and when that stopped working you had to struggle and try and adjust again, and it was like that forever until one day eventually, everything just stopped, and that was it.

That was always it, and still Lindsey was living, and still, people were living.

Perhaps that meant something, perhaps that meant that there was more than it seemed.

Perhaps there was hope in getting out of this town, perhaps there was hope in putting this bottle down, and perhaps there was hope in finding Alicia and Mikey alive.

But none of those things were realistic, and none of those things would happen.

And the hole six feet deep in the corner of Pete Wentz's back garden made sure of that, because it was that very hole that had condemned Lindsey to this bottle, and this town, because there wasn't a chance she was going to leave Alicia alone here, dead or alive.

Because there was far more between the two of them than she'd ever dared to tell anyone.

-

Frank's heart practically stilled in his chest as he banged his fist upon Bert McCracken's front door, because in a way, this was all or nothing, because Gerard was everything in the whole world to him, and Frank knew that he shouldn't be, but Frank also knew that there was very little that he could do about it.

Pete gave him a badly executed glance of 'comfort' as the two waited in silence, Frank deciding to bang his fist upon the door once more after receiving very little in the way of a response, his hand shaking a little as he did so, because he was fucking _nervous_ and there was absolutely no lying about that.

After again, receiving no response, Frank resorted to slamming the door and with a great deal more force than before, which really wasn't working, and succeeded in nothing more than making him look like an idiot.

Pete pushed him aside, picking the lock within a minute or so, and leaving Frank to simply not question just how he'd learned to do that. Pete grinned at Frank as he pushed the door open with ease, grabbing his gun as he made his way in, and really making it look like he'd done this before, which unnerved Frank, to say the least.

The two made their way into the living room, Frank's jaw dropping to find Bert sat on the sofa, loading bullets in a gun, and with Gerard fast asleep curled up next to him in a state of utter oblivion.

"Is he _dead_?" Pete exclaimed, gesturing towards Gerard's _sleeping_ form, and leaving Bert with an urge to fucking shoot _himself_.

"No, he's asleep." Bert rolled his eyes, glancing at Gerard, who hadn't even twitched in his sleep. "And was there any reason why you broke into my house?"

"The law says that I can shoot you for breaking and entering, so you better fucking think about what you're gonna do, okay, got that?" Bert snapped, pointing his gun kind of loosely in their direction.

"Like I give a shit what the law says." Frank rolled his eyes, clicking the safety off his gun and making a point of aiming it at Bert. "I fucking _know_ what you're doing to my boyfriend-"

"He's not your boyfriend, Frank." Bert let out a sigh, glancing at Gerard as he spoke, and kind of half wishing he would wake up before Frank shot him, because the only person in the whole that Frank Iero would ever consider listening to was of course Gerard Way.

"Then whose fucking boyfriend is he? Barack Obama's?" Frank scoffed, rolling his eyes, stuck in some sort of weird denial state, and Pete couldn't help but glance between Gerard and Bert and fill in the gaps before Frank could even realise that there were gaps to be filled.

"Mine." And Frank nearly shot Bert for that answer: right then and there and with no other questions asked.

"Fuck _off_ , and fuck you, Bert, seriously _fuck_ you." Frank quickly lost his temper, making his way over to the two of them.

"He's here of his own accord, Frank, he's here because he wants to be, come on, you can wake him up and ask him, but I'd rather not wake him, you know-" Bert's words were cut off as Frank aimed a shot at the wall, just to prove a point.

Gerard stirred in his sleep, sitting up and rubbing his eyes as the sound of the shot resonated throughout the room. " _Frank_?" He exclaimed, looking between Frank and Bert with widened eyes. "What's happening, I... I-?" He turned to Bert, breaking Frank's heart the very moment he noticed that Gerard was directing the question at him.

"I'm not exactly sure; they break in with guns and, you know what? Frank would you care to enlighten us as to what the ever-loving _fuck_ is going on in that little head of yours?" Bert's tone was snide, making his hatred for Frank rather evident.

"I'm here for Gerard." He let out a sigh, putting his gun away, and leaving Bert and Pete to aim at one another. "Fuck, I...tell me what the _fuck_ 's going on, please, Gee?"

"I'm dating Bert now." Gerard's response was nonchalant enough to smash Frank's heart in too, and release a small smug little smirk from Bert's lips. "You were the one who stormed out... _remember,_ do you, Frank?"

"He's right, you know." Pete added from behind Frank, and gained one hell of a glare from Frank in return.

"No, fuck, Gerard you can't just- I miss you, I'm _sorry_ , I thought we were okay, I thought we were- fuck, I... I... _Gerard_... you can't just- you don't even _fuck_..." Frank turned to Pete, his eyes widening a little as he spoke. "You don't even _know_ what's happened while you were gone."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Gerard asked, shuffling just a little closer to Bert.

"Mikey... _fuck_ , Mikey... I-..." Frank turned to Pete, frozen and helpless, and so fucking _sorry,_ but not sorry, _enough_ , never sorry enough.

"Mikey's... _dead_..." Pete finished the sentence for Frank, leaving Gerard to sat there in silence for a moment, not quite able to accept what was happening, because _no,_ this was _not_ happening.

"Gerard, you need, please, you need to come back, I- there's so much mess, and I _need_ you, you're _everything_ , Gerard, you're-" Frank stepped forward, almost attempting to _grab_ Gerard as he did.

"Fuck off, _fuck you."_ Gerard snapped, grabbing Bert's gun from his hand and aiming it at Frank. "Fucking _go_."

"Gerard, please, I-" Frank stumbled backwards, his head spinning: a mess between Gerard and Bert and the gun, and _fuck_ , fuck, fuck, he was so _fucked_. "I _love_ you."

"I don't love you." Gerard put the gun down, and Frank breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"You don't mean that, Gerard-"

"You wanna fucking _bet_? You left me, fucking _remember?_ Do you, Frank?-"

"It's _him_ ," Frank exclaimed, pointing desperately in Bert's direction, his heart beating at something like ten times its normal speed, and the world slowly down to half time around him, and it was almost like he knew it, like he _knew_ what was coming. "Bert, he's fucking, fucking with your head, and it's- and it's Ray, you know, look _please,_ Gerard, I- I- _love_ -"

"Frank, please, just _leave_ it-" Bert hadn't planned on interrupting, and mainly on the basis that he didn't particularly plan on being shot, but needs must, anyway, he reckoned Pete was just a little too overwhelmed to even consider pulling the trigger at this point.

"No, I'm not leaving you, Gerard, not this time, I _love-_ "

Frank didn't finish that sentence.

Pete was just a little too overwhelmed to pull the trigger.

Gerard wasn't.

-


	24. i have no words i would apologise but im not sorry im dead (like frank)

Gerard was seven when he'd met his uncle for the first time.

It was some sort of grandiose occasion that his mother had hyped up to an extreme, and he hated the itchy suit he'd been made to wear.

It was ridiculous; he was _seven_ , but still it was important and he couldn't quite figure out why.

He'd sat there colouring in with red and green crayons that he'd found on the coffee table, paying little attention to the speech his mother was making, and Mikey, a few years younger than Gerard, was crying somewhere in the corner, only to be taken into the kitchen by a cousin Gerard didn't quite know the name of.

As his mother finished talking and sat back down and the family began to eat, the aforementioned uncle came and sat down beside Gerard; he was a tall, skinny man with lanky limbs, and Mikey had ended up looking an awful lot like him, but that was besides the point, and it was the glimmer in green eyes that had really had captured Gerard's attention.

He'd asked Gerard why he was colouring when his mother was speaking; he'd spoken to Gerard like it was a genuine question and like he was an equal adult and not a slightly rude seven year old.

Gerard had told him that he was drawing because he didn't know what was going on. Gerard had told his uncle about the words that he didn't know the meaning of and the itchy suits and the dinner with no meaning and the way Mikey wouldn't stop crying.

And Gerard's uncle had smiled a little at him before explaining that a cousin that Gerard still hadn't heard of was getting married, and Gerard had nodded whilst the uncle sat there for a while, watching as Gerard continued to draw.

Eventually, the uncle had asked Gerard why he didn't ask what was going on if he didn't understand, and why he'd simply just chosen to distance himself from matters, of course, that wasn't _exactly_ how he'd phrased it for a seven year old, but it was along those lines.

Gerard had stopped colouring at that point, sitting up straighter in his chair and turning to face his uncle with a perplexed look on his face, and explained that if he didn't know what to do he would find things out for himself.

Of course, slightly amused by the answer he'd received, Gerard's uncle pursued in his search for answer, and Gerard had explained that he didn't trust adults because if he couldn't understand what they were saying, how could he possibly understand or trust their explanation.

Gerard's uncle had sat there for a moment, bewildered, before telling seven year old Gerard Way that he had a point, but had reassured him that one day, years in the future he would indeed understand adults and the way they thought and why they did things, and that he would in fact be of a similar mindset himself.

Gerard had been repulsed by the idea and told his uncle that he never would understand, but his uncle just smiled in that way adults do when kids saying something cute and vaguely amusing.

However, come twenty one whole years later, Gerard still didn't understand a thing; he'd simply gone from holding a crayon in his hands, to squeezing his index finger around the trigger of a gun - ignoring his mother, shooting his ex-boyfriend; they were all the same thing, after all, weren't they?

They weren't, because he was supposed to have grown up by now, but Gerard was still scared and trembling, feeling twenty one years younger than he really was, because he'd gone past the point where a sorry could quite cut it.

Pete's eyes grew wide as he grabbed Frank, and leaned his weight upon him; the two stumbling back out the front door as Pete shot Gerard the worst glare he'd ever witnessed, and the two people remaining in the living room didn't utter another word until Pete's car set off out of the driveway.

Bert was speechless, perhaps even having not expected Gerard's actions as much as Gerard himself had, because in his mind, he was still seven, still colouring, and Bert was the uncle he still couldn't quite recall the name of.

This felt like an ending point of sorts; this was the end of the road, this was the freefall, and Gerard wasn't free at all, just _falling._

"I hope you don't ending up shooting me." Bert added after a few minutes of silence had passed, attempting to cover the fear and anxiety in his voice with poorly executed humour.

Gerard bit his lip, his gaze fixated upon the blood stain on the carpet that would be impossible to get out; it was a permanent reminder, a second one perhaps for the mess Gerard had made, and he would _have_ to live with the grave he'd dug himself, or well, the grave he'd dug Frank perhaps.

"I think it'd be best if you didn't have the gun anymore." Bert exhaled sharply, taking the pistol from Gerard's lose grip on it; turning the safety back on, and stuffing it back into a draw, before following Gerard's gaze to the stain on the carpet and cursing aloud.

Gerard turned to face his boyfriend: all wide eyes, and thunderous heartbeat. "I've killed him."

Bert paused, stuck on how to make Gerard better again, because there was no easy answer; there was no solution, because this was a hole six feet deep, and there was no ladder to climb out with. "Not necessarily."

Gerard wasn't convinced, and Bert wasn't either, despite the fact that he'd been the one to utter the words in the first place.

"Bullet wounds don't always kill people- if it's not a vital organ, and you can stop the bleeding you-"

"He never told me how Mikey died... he never told me what happened to Mikey- do you think Mikey was shot?" Gerard changed the subject of conversation within seconds, and with the enraged, half-dead look in his eyes, Bert didn't dare question him.

"No," Bert shook his head, reaching his hand out to meet Gerard's, "no one in the fucking world would ever want to shoot Mikey."

"You've never even met him." Gerard raised his eyebrows at Bert, his hands shaking a little as he spoke.

"If he's at all related to you, he has to have that special, beautiful vibe you have too, and no one could dare fuck with that." Bert promised him, holding his hand tight in his, only for the two to jump apart as Bert's cellphone vibrated in his pocket, and he retrieved it, the contact name reading ' _Pete_ '.

-

Brendon and Ryan have this kind of _thing_ , and it's blaringly obvious, and even harder to avoid, yet somehow, they still do, yet _somehow_ the two are sat on the balcony of Brendon's apartment; Brendon drinking wine, and Ryan drinking milk, because he made some stupid bet about surviving a week without alcohol with a friend of his, and well, the only non alcoholic beverage Brendon really had on hand, was of course, _milk_.

"Milk isn't bad, is it?" Brendon watched as Ryan gulped the cool, pale white, dairy liquid down his throat; his lips widening to take the milk in a manner almost like the widening of ass cheeks.

Ryan finished his milk, placing the cup by his feet and turning to Brendon with a milky grin (like seriously, the milk had done that weird thing where it stays on your face after you drank it, like milk, seriously, what the fuck is up with that?). "I do _love_ my milk, you know?"

"No, I wasn't that aware actually." Brendon confessed, the vast expanse of his forehead turning a milky white colour in embarrassment, because Brendon was so emo he got paler when he was embarrassed.

"Well, Brendon, did you know that per kilogram of milk there are four twenty calories?" Ryan asked, reciting handy, calcium rich nuggets of information like he'd just googled 'milk facts', but he totally hadn't because Ryan Ross was a milk expert. "So technically, a kilo of milk is equal to one weed?"

"One weed?" Brendon raised his eyebrows, personally offending the separate, conscious entity that was his forehead as he did so, because it didn't appreciate eyebrows invading its personal space.

"Yes, any weed, like a dandelion or a marijuana." Ryan paused, making a mental note to perhaps become as knowledgeable about weed as he was about milk so he could avoid further embarrassment.

"Who measures milk in kilograms?" Brendon asked the question that was obviously on _everyone's_ mind at this point. 

Google, apparently, but that was besides the point.

Ryan looked perplexed for a moment, before springing back to a calcium enriched life with more milky anecdotes. "Milk would not be frothy without its protein content."

"I thought I was speaking to a cute dude and not Siri or something..." Brendon trailed off, pulling his iPhone out of his pocket and speaking to Siri because, yes, Brendon had a life. "Siri, who measures milk in kilograms?"

And Siri, being, you know, so helpful and high tech, misunderstood Brendon and responded to the question 'Siri, who marries men on Kilimanjaro?', and with a rather perplexing, "I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean by 'who marries men on Kilimanjaro, big dick daddy."

"You got Siri to call you ' _big dick daddy'?"_ Ryan exclaimed, almost with the level of shock for someone who hadn't just told him a couple of handy milk enriched facts.

" _Fuck off_ , like you got Siri to call you anything less ridiculous." And Brendon's forehead was getting extremely agitated right then because his eyebrows were fucking overworking themselves there.

"Milk baby sixty nine." Ryan didn't even fucking stutter, because goddamn, he knew he was milk baby sixty nine, and he was fucking proud of it.

"What the _fuck_?" Brendon exclaimed like someone who didn't ask their iPhone to call them 'big dick daddy'.

"I just really _love_ milk." Ryan smiled to himself, gazing at the empty glass of milk, and imagining the beautiful, aesthetically pleasing pale white tones of the milky liquid that had once filled it.

"Do you have a milk kink or something?" And oh golly gosh darn it, Brendon did _not_ know what he was getting himself into right there.

Ryan only smiled, but it was a milky smile nevertheless.

"Do you have a _daddy_ kink or something, big dick daddy?" Ryan turned the calcium enriched tables with a question that had Brendon blushing the colour of pink milk.

" _Milk baby sixty nine_."

" _Big dick daddy."_

"A _milk_ kink is totally worse than a daddy kink, like okay, maybe I like being called daddy, fucking don't hold it against me, milk baby sixty nine, because at least I don't like being-... having... milk... what the fuck even _is_ a milk kink?"

Brendon reached for his iPhone again, perhaps considering asking Siri, but soon deciding that he really didn't want that on his search history.

"Well..." Ryan let out a sigh, his milky breath released into the air, and adding forty two calories per one hundred grams, making the air they were breathing so much more fattening. "Let me tell you a story."

"What kind of story?" Big dick daddy narrowed his eyes, his corneas a milky white.

"Let me set the scene, it was the twentieth of April, four twenty, and I was kneeling in bathtub, a towel under my knees, and another under my hands. I was a bit drunk, and my friend was like, 'hey Ryan, I dare you to let me put milk in your ass', and so at first, I was like no dude, fuck off, no homo, no homogenised milk, and so he went and bought some standardised milk specially, and I was like, okay, dude that's some dedication, and I was like fuck it, put the milk in my ass, so I got on my knees in the bathtub and he put the milk in my ass..."

"So... you... can you even have sex without having milk in your ass?" Brendon asked, because this was truly an important question to him, for scientific reasons, though, not homosexual ones, of course.

"Of course, Brendon, don't be so stupid." Ryan rolled his eyes, licking the milk from his lips in an oddly seductive gesture.

"Well, I'm _sorry_ , because, fuck you, Ryan-"

"Milk baby sixty nine." Ryan corrected him, waggling his eyebrows in a particularly sexual arousing manner.

"Fuck you, milk baby sixty nine." Brendon repeated, looking just a little like he wanted to shoot himself, _or_ milk up Ryan's ass.

"You know you want to, big milk daddy-"

" _Big dick daddy."_ Brendon shook his head, "gosh, Ryan, can't you get _anything_ right?"

"Stop kink shaming, you ass goblin-"

" _Ass goblin_?" Brendon exclaimed, having some seriously weird mental images, because okay, milk kink, but a _goblin_ kink?

"Yes, you're an ass goblin, because you love me so much that you're so far up my ass that you live in it like a goblin in a cave or a tunnel or something."

"In _your_ ass, wouldn't the goblin drown in the milk?"

"Well, let's just say that it's a good thing that I don't know any lactose intolerant goblins."

-

Frank had been fifteen when he'd first got fucked in the ass.

It wasn't a particularly spectacular thing to think of as he lay on the backseat of Pete Wentz's car, his jacket pressed around the bullet hole as makeshift bandages, as he tried his best not to bleed out and die, right then and right there.

But Frank was a prostitute: this who he was, and all he'd ever be, and he couldn't even imagine that age fifteen.

He couldn't even imagine what dying might feel like, what the backseat of a gang leader's car might feel like, what being shot by the guy you loved felt like: this was heartbeat, a shot through the heart in the most literal sense.

But of course, Gerard's aim was shoddy and the bullet had ended up more so in his thigh than in his heart, and that was definitely for the better, because at least like this he had perhaps these extra few minutes on the line between life and death, as Pete sped across town, his destination unknown, but irrelevant to Frank.

Because Frank had been fifteen, and he'd had stupid hair with red streaks and he'd looked ridiculous, and he'd been about four feet tall, and still, there was this cute guy with blonde hair who gave him cigarettes called Scott- or was it Anthony? It didn't matter, not really, but that time did.

Because Frank's friend didn't show up, and Frank and Scott/Anthony were stood outside Scott/Anthony's house in the rain, and Frank was indiscreet and staring at him the whole time, and the guy was older, and braver than him, and somehow within five minutes, he'd found himself being _fucked_ against that guy's mattress.

Frank's friend never did turn up.

But Frank and Scott/Anthony never spoke again after that.

It didn't matter much, because Frank had forgotten all about him by the next week, but things could never be like that with Gerard.

Gerard was everything, and Frank almost wished he'd never met the guy, because then perhaps he could just carry on being fucked, just carry on living a mundane life, but it was too late, and Pete's mouth was moving, but no words were coming out.

" _Frank_ \- fuck... can you hear me?" He was practically screaming at this point, and Frank's ears seemed to pop with such vigour that his whole body jolted a little as they did so, and _fuck_ , that wasn't doing his chances of bleeding out and dying any favours at all.

"I... I... I'm gonna _die_ , Pete." Frank sighed out, his eyes fixated upon the back window, watching as the skyline faded into nothingness as his vision gradually began to blur.

"No- no you're _not_. Too many fucking people are dying on me, Frankie, and I'm not- I'm not going to let that happen to you- I... Mikey... Mikey... _fuck_ , Mikey, that was my fault... I-..."

"What?" Frank exclaimed, turning his head a little to meet Pete's gaze in the front mirror.

" _Fuck_." Pete cursed, regretting having ever said anything, but it was too late now; both for take backs, and Frank, and that life of his. "There was an argument and he hit his head and he could have lived if I'd taken him to the hospital, but... he... I couldn't, I _didn't_ , and he died right in my living room, but never once did I let go of his hand." Pete shook his head firmly, his breathing growing heavy as the memories flooded back to his mind. "I'm scared that the same will become of you, _please_ don't die, Frank."

"Then take me to the hospital." Frank pushed the words out with difficulty, and Pete almost crashed the car as he found himself considering it.

"I _can't_ \- they have police records, and I'm wanted, and you're a _prostitute_ , and we... we're the fucked up end of town - we're destined to die, and we're destined to die alone."

Frank let out a sigh, leaning his head back a little, because if he was going to die, he was going to die in comfort. "Gerard doesn't deserve this mess; he doesn't deserve to be a murderer... he's beautiful, and I love him still... I'd forgive him if I could... if he'd let me."

"He _shot_ you-"

"I _love_ him."

And Pete shook his head, biting down on his tongue as he did so. "That's fucked up, Frank."

"I know." Frank paused for a moment, "but what part of this world, this _life_ , isn't?"

"Please try not to die." Pete begged, as he turned away from the hospital; making a mistake for the second time over.

"I don't think it's up to me." Frank let out a sigh, but regretted doing so instantly, as every cell in his body seemed to scream out in pain as he did so. "We'd need to get this bullet out anyway, and I doubt you have the guts for that."

"Lindsey'd do it." Pete spoke fast, a grin igniting on his face as he turned into his driveway, his heart racing at the possibility of saving his best friend.

"Doesn't mean it'd work... and I'd probably bleed out before she got here... my vision's getting blurrier with every second, you know. I'm _going_ to die, Pete, and I know that."

" _Fuck_." Pete pulled out his cellphone turning to Frank in the backseat. "I'm calling Bert, and he'll give the phone to Gerard, and you'll tell him how much you love him, because that's the only thing I can do for you now."

"He won't listen, he won't _care_."

"You’re _dying_ , Frank; of course he will!" Pete exclaimed, putting the phone on speaker and laying it beside Frank.

"But only because I'm dying, because people only care when it's too late, and I kept having this dream where I walk up this hill, only for my legs to break as I reached the top, and there's this river, and I can't swim with broken legs, and there's Gerard on the other side and he has a boat, but he won't give it me, because this is his hill, and he didn't want me to walk up it in the first place..."

Pete paused for a moment, his eyes widening a little, "what on earth does that mean?"

"I don't know."

And Frank closed his eyes.

And fell asleep forever, to have that dream a million times, and perhaps even a million more.

-


	25. mmm whatcha say

And it was late, and Gerard was in anything but the right mind to make decisions in, but this house, and this world, and this smile, and this kind of hope, it just wasn't for him.

And he thought of the ex-boyfriend and the bullet he'd put in him.

Gerard didn't deserve anything, except this, because he didn't deserve this world, and he most definitely didn't fit in it, but instead of getting out while he could, he changed himself to fit there; the final piece of the world's most tragic puzzle, and only now that things were falling apart, only now did he want out.

Because most of all, Gerard just wanted Mikey back, because like that, maybe he could be okay again, but things weren't going to work out like that, and the twenty eight year old had to accept that as he piled his things into a bag, and closed the door behind him.

Because leaving was the easy part; Gerard had always been good at that - running away from his problems, his parents, his life, the people who loved him, and the people who mattered, and in reality, this was little but second nature to him, and he just wished that he could really convince himself of that, as he forced himself not to look back and not to think about Bert as he made his way down the driveway at something close to midnight.

He'd dug this grave for himself, and he'd been the one to lay Frank in it.

And despite the multitude of fucks ups, and the mess that Frank had caused, he could never deserve anything for this, and especially not this, not _death_.

And not the phone call that came too late, and left Gerard alone, because if Gerard knew what the worst thing in the world was, it was that silence, and Pete's lacklustre apology, and the tears, and Bert getting angry, and Gerard curling up and waiting for it all to go away.

He'd laid still for hours; waited for hours, pleaded forever, and still, reality stood firm, and perhaps like this could even fathom accepting his own mistakes, but no, that'd be too logical, and he still had one last ditch attempt at making another mess of himself on the outskirts of town, because Gerard didn't know what was left for himself anymore at all.

The obvious answer was, indeed, nothing.

The right answer was, also, nothing.

And the answer Gerard didn't want to believe was, of course, nothing.

Perhaps he should have never moved in besides a certain Frank Iero, and perhaps then no one of this mess could have possibly happened, or possibly not, because fate had an odd way when it came to going about things, and it was something Gerard Way would reckon he was somewhat unfairly and overly accustomed to.

Not that he believed in fate, at all, because it wasn't like fate believed in him either.

But still, Gerard didn't half blame it, because he was a mess, and he was _the_ mess; he was the cause, he was the man behind the trigger, and he was the grenade thrown into the crowd, and still, he couldn't quite bring himself to accept it.

Because Gerard had loved Frank, of course he had, there was no question about that, but perhaps he loved the _idea_ of Frank more than the person he really was.

Because the twenty eight year old was an artist, he lived inside his own head, with the most abstract and poetic of thoughts, and the prostitute and the painter had meant a lot; the innocent and corrupted, the hopeless and the hope - the demolition lovers, set on course for destruction and demise, and that was just something that hadn't quite sunk into Gerard's head until the very moment he found himself on Pete Wentz's doorstep, but this time, _alone_.

And the thought, the notion, seemed awfully permanent, and it had Gerard with a heavy heart and shallow breaths, as the doorbell rang out in a deafening silence, and he could barely piece together what exactly was happening as the door opened and he was pulled into the tightest of hugs.

"I'm so sorry." And sincerity was of the utmost evidence in her words, as she closed the door behind them, and the man at the end of the hallway swallowed, _hard_ , and he swallowed hard in little but guilt, because he was in two minds about the situation; one where it was nothing, not his fault, and one where it was nothing _but_ his fault.

"I'm so, _so_ sorry." She added, finally pulling away from the artist, and leaving his heart racing in his chest as he glanced between the faces that he recognised to be of Pete and Lindsey.

"I-It's... o-okay..." And it wasn't, but Gerard had developed somewhat of a finesse for lying, and he wasn't the least bit regretful.

"It's okay to be sad." Lindsey told him, making sure he had very little opportunity to question it as she lead him into the kitchen, handing him a glass of water, and the man at the end of hallway followed them in a guilt ridden silence.

"It's my fault; I shouldn't get to be sad." Gerard shook his head firmly, sipping on the glass of water that Lindsey had practically placed into his hands for him.

"It's not your fault." Lindsey's response was instant and damn well insistent, taking a seat beside him, and leaving Pete to lean against the wall in an odd kind of apprehension that he hadn't really happened upon before.

"Then whose fault could it possibly be?" Gerard was unconvinced, to say the least, and it showed, "I was the one who pulled the trigger; _I_ killed him, and he lay dead because of me, and Pete was there and he saw me, and Bert did too, and I... I..."

"He died on the car ride home," and Pete spoke up for the first time: all eyes on him as he did so, "and never once did he stop talking about you, and he doesn't blame you, and _he's_ sorry, and he loves you, and that was what he was going to say before he-... before... you know, and... and... he told me about this dream he had, this stupid fucking dream, with you on a hill and you wouldn't let him across a river to see you, and it made no sense, and it was so stupid, and I... _I'm_ sorry-"

"Fuck, this isn't your fault either, Pete, you idiot-" Lindsey protested, but Pete gestured for her to be quiet, and in the circumstances, she found herself respecting that.

"I'm sorry about Mikey, because that was; that _really_ was..."

"What?" Gerard piped up, eyes wide and tear stained.

"I didn't _shoot_ him or anything, but he was injured, he was bleeding out: a head injury, and I... he wasn't going to make it, and deep down, I knew that, but I wouldn't admit it to myself, and I wouldn't take him to a hospital where they could have stopped this, but I wouldn't, I _couldn't_ because I was scared, and the authorities, and... I fucked up, but I never let go of his hand, because Mikey... _fucking_ Mikey... I love him, you know? Like, really _love_ him..."

And the world's longest silence and Gerard swallowed every word in his vocabulary, because nothing felt like enough, and he doubted that anything ever would, but that really wasn't something he could even fathom living with.

"What happened to Alicia?" Lindsey broke the silence, shaking a little as the question left her lips, because this was more than just friends, and this was more than simplicity would allow, because things could never be quite that easy.

"She... there was an argument.... I'm sorry... I... I... a gun... I... there... I...-"

"You _shot_ her?" Lindsey exclaimed, getting to her feet in a mix of rage and disbelief, because fuck, she didn't want to believe this at all, and indeed, for the most part, she really _couldn't_.

Pete nodded his head, biting his lip, and it was the smallest gesture in the world, but still, it was _far_ too much.

"You _fucking-_ and what? I get no apology? No explanation? Not even a small 'let you know'? Nothing, absolutely _nothing_?" Lindsey shook her head in disbelief, "is that all I'm worth to you, Pete? I loved her, you know? And fuck you, and _fuck_ , because she was, she _is_ , beautiful, and I want to go back to that alleyway and tell her to run, and tell her to get the fuck away from you and these people, because she doesn't belong in this mess, she's nothing but a victim here, and you know it."

Pete swallowed hard, short of anything to say, but Lindsey gave him little chance to even consider something resembling a response before she'd turned to Gerard and the words flowed through her lips once more.

"And you too, you too. Because Gerard, you're beautiful, you're too kind, and you're talented, F-Frank never shut the fuck up about you and your art, and you deserve more than this, you deserve the walls of an art gallery, not blood-stained ones-"

"But I made this mess, didn't I? Because I shot him, and I fucked Ray and Bert, and I caused that one initial argument that seems worlds away now, and I... he'd still be alive, he'd still be here if I'd never moved in next door."

"Stop telling yourself that: Ray and Bert manipulated you, and I hate to say it, but on a level, Frank did too, and it's not your-"

"I'm a pushover, I know it well, but I can't apologise for being myself, because when I'm not, I fuck up, still, I fuck up always: I _am_ a fuck up-"

"No, everyone fucks up, it's nothing to do with you, and it's most certainly not your mistakes that determine what kind of a person you are; you're an artist, you're beautiful, and there's so much for you, and there's a whole world outside of this town, and there's art school, go to _art school_ , Gerard, come on, fix your life before you ruin it again."

"I can't just _leave_... Bert doesn't even know I left, and I-"

"But you did." Pete spoke up this time, "she's right."

"You're staying here tonight, of course, but please get out before it's too late: make something out of yourself, while there's still some part of you that you haven't yet let people destroy." Lindsey grabbed Gerard's hand, and passed him a smile, "go get some sleep, okay, there's a spare bedroom down the hall."

And as the door closed behind him, and footsteps faded out into nothingness against the wooden hallway floor, Lindsey turned to Pete, and flashed him the worst kind of glare.

"Fuck you, Wentz, seriously _fuck_ you." And her words were little but bitter, but perhaps Pete deserved it.

"Look, I'm not happy, am I? We both lost people, of course we did-"

"No, Gerard lost so much, but all you have to do is fucking go and make everything about yourself, because Mikey Way is most _definitely_ Gerard's brother over your stupid little schoolboy crush, because you didn't even _date_ , and that's all it ever was, and with your fuck ups, that's all it will ever be, and you _fucking_ , you _fucking_... just go, Pete, just _go_ -"

"This is _my_ house!" Pete protested, eyes widening a little.

"I don't fucking _care_ , Pete." Lindsey slammed her fist down against the table, causing Pete to jump a little.

"What if I say no? What the fuck if I say _no_? You don't _own_ me, Lindsey, so _fuck_ you, because I'm hurting and this isn't fair, and you _know_ that, don't you?" And Pete was brave, perhaps a little too brave.

"You're going to want to shut the _fuck_ up right now, because all you've been, all you've _ever_ been is selfish, and you _know_ that, but you daren't admit it for fear of bruising that precious little ego of yours, huh? And you know I'm right; you don't need to tell me-"

"And you think you know everything, and you know that too, and all you are is a controlling bitch, who never quite got the guts to tell one fucking girl that you were just a little bit gay for her, well fucking done, Lindsey, and come on, like this isn't your fault too-"

And that was too much, and perhaps Pete knew it.

But down the hallway, Gerard certainly did, as that night, he fell asleep to the echoes of gunshots; too distant to seem real in the ears of an almost mad man.

-

When Gerard was younger, he'd never really meant much to anyone at all, and it was nothing short of a sad truth, but it was a truth nonetheless, and he knew it, and Mikey had known it too.

Mikey wasn't all that far better off than him, but the younger of the two Way brothers had avoided the majority of the bullying, and Gerard was forever graceful for that, because Mikey deserved the entire fucking world, despite the hatred he'd grown for him as he'd moved out and hated him for being the 'loved' and 'perfect' one.

Because Gerard was a spiteful asshole at best, and Mikey had been in no way exempt from that temperament.

He'd managed to brush off the majority of the teasing and hardships he found himself facing on a basis far more regular than he would have preferred, but it had only really struck a chord in him once that new kid, Lucas, or whatever his name was, moved schools, and he was new, and _cute_ , and Gerard couldn't shake that fact, and in turn, Gerard couldn't shake his crush on him.

Even as Lucas didn't even speak to him, even as Lucas got a girlfriend, even as Lucas got a girlfriend whom he hated, even as said girlfriend told Lucas that Gerard was making a pass at her, and even as Lucas had beaten him to the floor for it, and even as Lucas and his girlfriend got in Lucas' friend's car and drove away, and even as laughter rung in Gerard's ears as he lost all conscience.

And it had been different for the first time then, because Gerard had really _cared_ about someone or something for the first time in his life, and then for that someone to fucking ruin Gerard like that, it dug a hole where his heart should have been; it dug a hole that needed to be filled, and without knowing it, Lucas had low key ruined Gerard's life.

Because that was why Gerard was always too quick to trust, and too desperate for attention, and that was the secret he kept close to his chest, and would perhaps even carry to the grave, not that the grave meant much to Gerard anymore.

Because indirectly, _indirectly_ , Lucas had gotten Frank Iero killed, because Gerard knew deep down that if he'd never fucked him up like that, then Gerard would never take to solving situations with bullets as opposed to talking things through.

Because, it could be _anybody’s_ fault if Gerard pondered on the matter long enough, because Gerard was good at that: pinning the blame, removing the guilt, just to save his skin, because really, Gerard had been fucked up from day one, and perhaps with Lucas, with Frank, with Ray, with Bert, it had been little more than a switch and the flicking of it.

It had been his mother's fault too, because she'd never accepted him for who he was and who he wanted to be, and it had been her fault because she'd never pushed him into the lifestyle that he didn’t want, but the lifestyle that would keep him out of the mess, and out of the grave that he'd dug for himself, and everyone he'd ever loved.

It had been his father's fault because he'd never spent much time with him and Gerard never felt like he was appreciated, and Gerard had taken that lack of appreciation with him for the rest of his life, and it had been his father's fault because he paid too much attention to Gerard, and he’d gotten complacent with the fact that people would just _care_ for him, no matter what he did or how he fucked up.

It had been Frank's fault for walking in when he shouldn't have that one day, because if he hadn't, the two probably never would have crossed paths so much, and it had been Frank's fault for not letting things just be easy and letting this relationship and everything work out so easily and so fucking _happily_ , and it had been Frank's fault for letting things go, and not telling Gerard to just fuck off before he could fuck himself over, because surely Frank must have seen this a mile off.

It had been Ray's fault for making Gerard trust him, and fucking him over like that, and then doing so little after Bert had stood up to him, because maybe Gerard needed that trust and love more than he could ever admit to himself, and it had been Ray's fault for not just being straight with Gerard, well not like that, but perhaps they really could have worked if he'd just told the truth, and perhaps Gerard could really see himself being happy with Ray.

It had been Bert's fault for 'rescuing' him from Ray and making him wake up a little, and see just what a hell of a mess he'd gotten himself into, and it had been Bert's fault for letting him call Frank, and giving him that chance to let him be okay again, because Gerard hadn't deserved it, and Frank hadn't deserved what he'd heard. It had been Bert's fault for not kissing him first, because then it was Gerard's fault, and Gerard was selfish enough to believe that mattered at all, and it had been Bert's fault for kissing him back, and letting Gerard feel okay, despite the mess he was making.

It had been his own fault for all the above reasons, and in addition, the fact that Gerard continued to seek someone else to pin the blame on, because that's all this was: no sob story, nothing beautiful, tragic, or romantic, just one fucked up guy, as fucked up as the rest of them, who saw everything and nothing at the same time, and got greedy for both.

This was the story of the man who wasn't sorry, this was the story of the man who'd do it again, this was the story of the man who mourned his ex-boyfriend and fucked his new one simultaneously.

This was the story of the man who lay awake at night and dreamed for a world where the gun had been pointing at himself and not Frank, or perhaps a world where Frank had had his gun pointed at Gerard, because maybe he wouldn't have minded.

This was the story of the man who fell asleep and dreamed the dream where he was a top a hill, and Frank climbed up, and wanted to cross the river, and this was the story of the man, who lay frozen and unwilling as someone else pulled the words from his lips and denied Frank access.

This was the story of the man who woke up the next morning and found the house empty and blood-stained, and a note on the countertop from Lindsey Ballato.

_'I'm sorry.'_

And the note did little to explain the empty house or the bloody mess, let alone the _two_ bodies on the kitchen floor.

-


	26. and... it ends, finally, lmao

Ray Toro was made to regret leaving that one window open, as in the dead of night, a silhouette, no more than a shadow, perhaps, pushed it open further and slid into the living room unnoticed.

The intruder wasn't exactly aware as to what time it was, but from the inky black sky outside, they were well aware of the fact that Ray would be asleep right now, and they were just as thankful of that fact as they were aware.

They left the window open behind them, even though they knew how unsafe it was from their own entry just a few seconds prior, because if things fucked up, they _would_ need an easy way out, and the window would most certainly suffice.

Of course it wasn't their first choice, of course this in its entirety wasn't their first choice either, but it was the last thing they had left as their choices ran low, and they ran out of people they could trust at all; it was a cruel world and they'd learned that first hand.

But still, this had to be done, and a part of them yearned for the deed and the ecstatic aftermath, because deep down, this was something they knew was long time coming, and they reckoned Mr Toro himself knew that also.

But perhaps not who such a deed would be coming from, but they reckoned they'd be as good of a heart attack in the middle of the night as any, and on a man's deathbed, he most certainly couldn't carry that much preference as to how he went, especially when it was _anything_ but up to him.

The intruder smirked to themself in the darkness, grabbing the gun from their back pocket and turning the safety off, and ensuring that it was loaded, because that really was a fucking _ridiculous_ mistake that they didn't dare chancing; they'd much prefer to give it a little test, but they couldn't chance sparking Ray's attention before they were certain that they'd go through with this mess of misplaced justice and revenge.

With one deep breath, they made their way down the hallway, finding Ray's bedroom open just a crack; the man having fallen asleep with the night light still on and a book across his chest, and from the looks of it, and the whisky on the nightstand, he was fucking well out of it.

They kicked the door opened fully, wincing as it let out a high pitched whine, perhaps even in protest, but the man in the bed didn't stir at all, and the intruder began to wonder if he ever would; the thought amused them, sparking their interest as they stepped into the bedroom and aimed their gun at the sleeping man, still unaware and perhaps even _peaceful_.

He was sleeping; it'd be painless, and _fuck_ , no, he didn't deserve it like that for what he'd done, and the intruder knew that through and through, and with irrationality and a strange urge for vengeance ruling over what little justice and common sense they still had in their head, they shot their 'test shot' at the wall above the man, making quick work of angling the gun back at Ray, as he came to some form of consciousness.

" _Fuck-_ I... what-" He reached for the main light switch above his head, slamming it on, and the intruder smirked a little as Ray's eyes widened at them in the newfound artificial light. "What are you- I... put the gun down, _please_... I..."

"You took him, you hurt him: I don't _care_ what you have to say, I really fucking don't, Toro." The intruder spat at the man, their lips curling up into a fully-fledged grin at the prospect of what was to come.

"Come on, now, _please_ , I... see sense, please, he wanted, he wanted-"

"And you know what I want?" They continued, aiming the gun closer to Ray's body.

"I-"

"You dead." And the intruder finished their sentence with a gunshot and one hell of a smirk, as they turned the light off, and laid the book back over the man's chest, raising an eyebrow as they noticed that it was indeed none other than 'Fifty Shades of Grey', before putting the gun back in their pocket and making their way back out the very same window, but closing it behind them this time, because they were indeed very polite.

-

The second home was across town, and at a first glance, far more difficult to break into, which was really ruining the ecstatic vibe they gotten off Ray Toro's murder, because that's what it was: murder, justified murder, at least in their head, but murder nonetheless, but they didn't cower from that truth, they _revelled_ in it.

However, with a jump over a back gate into an unkempt, small backyard, they found themselves with not an unsuspecting open window, but a fucking _unlocked_ backdoor, and they even considered stopping to laugh at the stupidity that had gone into a fuck up of that calibre, but of course, they never quite stopped to consider just _why_ it could have been left open, as the back gate shut behind someone: a certain someone that had the intruder pinned against the wall of the house with a pistol.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" The man: the owner of the house, was anything but pleased to see a face, darkened, and unrecognisable in the absence of light, smirking at him like a madman, despite the apparent mess they'd gotten themselves into.

"Oh come on, _Bert_ , don't be such a little bitch about this for once, why don't you?" They attempted to laugh it off, but Bert wasn't having it, reaching for the porch light switch, and half regretting that he hadn't.

"You're- you're _covered_ in blood. What the _fuck_? I... _fuck_... I... you're- you're... I... you're... supposed to be _dead-_ " Bert's eyes widened in shock as he took in the appearance and mortality of the shorter one of two, recognising them as perhaps the last person he'd ever wanted to see, _ever._

"Yeah, about that..." They shook their head, aiming their gun at Bert's head. "How about you take my place? Because, I don't like you, McCracken, and you're fucking _well_ aware of that, aren't you?"

"Don't get so up your own ass, kid, you're covered in blood, you're psychotic, you're... you're supposed to be dead, and now you're attempting to kill me, and what for? We know what for, so don't fucking bullshit me, kid, you're just _pissed_ because he kissed me, not you; he chose _me_ , not y-"

And let's just say that Bert's life ended before that sentence could.

"Don't fucking try to tell me shit, you got that?"

-

They hadn't exactly reckoned on there being a third house, and a third visit, but Bert's words, and the seeds of doubt they'd planted in their head had ensured that they took the extra time, still covered in blood, and heart still racing like hell itself, to make their way across town, to a place they knew they shouldn't go again, to people they knew they shouldn't talk to again, but by now they'd figured this all out.

It was all for _him_. It had always been for him, and there was no escaping that as they passed the alleyway, and the car, still parked on an angle, and winced a little as they glanced down at the bloodstains, and the wounds.

Because no one had reckoned, no one had realised, no one had even considered that the blood they were covered in was not from others but from their own wounds, from their own veins, and it dear god, it wasn't stopping: it had _no_ intent of stopping.

And they knew that as they took a seat, a break, a rest, _something_ on the curb, taking three pills this time; they didn’t even know what they were, but they knew the pills helped, and that was enough, that would _have_ to be enough, because sure, it wasn’t like they were going to last that much longer, was it?

They'd evaded it the first time, when Pete had left the car, had fucking bailed out for the second twice, had fucked up for the _millionth_ time as they couldn't take it, and couldn't figure it, simply leaving the body there, unnoticed, perhaps even forgotten about as Pete drank everything away, because, sure Pete had been a good enough friend, but he was never the kind of person that _Frank_ would have picked to help him on his deathbed.

Because he'd presumed him dead as soon as he lost consciousness, and perhaps a few hours later, Frank had awoken, bleeding less, but still not at all okay, and he'd made a run for it, for god knows what reason, perhaps just to die in dignity, to smoke and curl up on the hill on the outskirts of town, to give himself a send of at least, but, whatever he was expecting, he most certainly hadn't expected himself to still be there in the morning.

But he had been, and perhaps the bleeding had lessened, but he still knew that as he stopped to black out, pass out a little every few minutes or so, he was certain that he wasn't going to last much, and still, he drank until he was numb, and stitched himself up: stitches that had burst as he'd made his way into Ray's home, but it had been worth it, because there was little point in prolonging the inevitable any further, because he'd done it, hadn't he?

He killed them: the two people who'd fucked this all up, but still, and perhaps it was just Bert's words, he felt empty inside, and he needed, he _needed_ to see him again, even in a state like this, even if just for a few seconds, because whatever it was, whatever it could be, would be worth everything.

Because it always been for him, from day one, from the first second, from that smile and that hatred, and back when everything was okay, and Frank knew that through and through.

Unfortunately, however, he had little time to ponder upon such a catastrophic, Romeo and Juliet esque realisation, before he was startled by the sound of a gunshot, and muffled screaming, coming from inside the house, and before Frank knew what was happening, he was on his feet, and he was making a run for the backdoor, always left unlocked now, and fuck, Frank hadn't been ready at all.

Pete's body on the kitchen floor, in a pool of his own blood, dead, clearly recent, and Lindsey stood above him, almost in shock at what she'd done, and perhaps in even _more_ shock as her gaze fell upon Frank's, and the two shared a look: the least likely look in existence, and a silence, prolonged, and hammering heartbeats as Frank pulled out his gun.

"Why the _fuck_ did you do that?" He snapped at her, gesturing towards Pete, or what was left of him, with his gun.

"How the _fuck_ are you still a-alive, and fuck, why are you covered in blood? So much fucking _blood,_ Frank, what the _fuck_ did you _do_?" She exclaimed, stumbling over her own words as she continued to look at Frank in disbelief.

"Why the _fuck_ did you do that?" Frank repeated his question, pointing his gun directly at Lindsey, and taking a step forwards.

She swallowed hard, pointing her own gun at Frank, as she continued, "How the _fuck_ are you still alive? What happened, for _fuck's_ sake, Frank-"

"You're not going to shoot me: I know that, Lindsey." Frank shook his head, wincing a little as he felt a jolt of pain slice through his wounds, but it didn't show, because this was all about the facade: the fight, and the vengeance, and who he made himself out to be on his deathbed, misplaced pride, and a fucked up sense of dignity, and to summarise it all, a self concocted mess.

"Of course, I am, I have a _gun_ -"

"You're still barely able to accept what you did to Pete, so I doubt you'll be chancing it a second time, and especially not with someone you're so relieved to see alive, so shut the fuck up and answer my question." Lindsey shuddered a little, putting her gun down, because fuck, this was Frank, but it wasn't _Frank_ ; he'd changed, and from the bloodstains on his clothes, to his psychotic demeanour, it was more than evident.

"And you would? Be able to shoot me, your best friend, would you?"

"I just killed two people, shot them dead, on my way here, don't fucking push me, Lindsey, why did you do it?" And Lindsey swallowed, shaking her head and tearing up.

"He killed Alicia and Mikey; he killed the both of them, he... he... I... I couldn't... and I'd thought he'd killed you too, I... and he wouldn't, _no_ , he went too far, and Gerard, fucking _Gerard_ , I..." Lindsey shook her head, biting her lip firmly in disbelief.

"What about Gerard?" Frank practically snapped at her, his eyes widening a little at the mention of his name.

"He's fine, he's asleep in the spare room, he came here just a few hours ago; he ran away from Bert, I don't know, fuck, Frank, he misses you, he's not coping well, and I don't want him to wake up and see this bloody, dangerous, fucking terrifying version of you, like shit Frank what did you _take_?" She shook her head in disbelief as she looked him over for what felt like the millionth time.

"Asleep? With all of this-"

"I gave him sedatives in his water last night-"

" _Sedatives?_ " Frank exclaimed, making no secret about just how eager he was to fucking _destroy_ Lindsey at this point.

"He wasn't going to get any sleep otherwise, very _weak_ sedatives, but he's asleep now-"

"This is Pete Wentz's house, nothing here is fucking _weak_ , except you perhaps. You just _can't_ fucking... no... you _drugged_ him, you fucking _bitch_ -"

"Oh dear god, stop acting like you're the angel of the fucking lord, Frank, you're been nothing but trouble to him, as have we all; what he needs is to get out of this town and start new, and that's what he's going to do, and you're _not_ going to stop him, you're not going to ruin him a second ti-"

And the second gunshot, as Lindsey Ballato fell dead against the floor.

Frank shook his head, pocketing his gun, his eyes widening a little as he noticed a note: a simple 'I'm sorry' scribbled on a scrap of paper, _fuck_. He laid it out on the counter, and wondered if he could even stomach seeing Gerard like this, because he knew very well what it looked like, and quite honestly, the truth wasn't that far off.

-

Gerard had woken up that next morning, and found the house 'empty' and blood-stained, and as he continued to explore, a note on the countertop from Lindsey Ballato.

_'I'm sorry._ '

And the note did little to explain the empty house or the bloody mess, let alone the two bodies on the kitchen floor.

And especially not the man, sat at the dining table in the corner of the room, lighting what he reckoned to be his last cigarette, as the blood flowed more freely now, as poor innocent, unexpecting Gerard Way made his way into the kitchen, and Frank got the worst turn out of all, as he got to watch the look in Gerard's eyes as they fell upon the mess on the floor, and as he recognised that he had nothing left at all.

And then, as he moved his gaze across the room, and had something close to a heart attack as his gaze fell upon the practically dead man at the table.

" _Frank_?" He exclaimed, ignoring the bodies of his dead friends as he rushed over to what the world would declare a monster, sat all too calmly in the room.

"Fuck..." Frank trailed off, shaking his head, and regretting the pain it caused him, as Gerard sat down beside him, taking in his appearance with widened eyes.

"Fuck, Frank, you're bleeding, you're _bleeding_ , I- we... need to get you to _hospital_ , I-"

"I'm supposed to be dead, Gee, what the fuck does it matter?" Frank let out a dry, fucking _painful_ kind of laughter, as he dropped his cigarette into the ashtray, and turned to face Gerard. "I'm dying, Gerard, that's for certain, and I'm sorry, I'm selfish, I have to see you again, I _love_ you, Gee, this is all for you, I fucking- you're _safe_ now, really safe: Ray and Bert, I killed them, all for you, and that's what the blood is: I'm fine-"

"Don't fucking bullshit me, Frank, I... that's _your_ blood, you're bleeding, and I... I... _please_ , you can't- you can't, come on, _hospital_ , now, you-... I can't lose you as well, because look at this, look, come on, _who_ the fuck do I have left, I-"

"I have this friend... well, acquaintance, really, but his name's Brendon Urie, I'll give you his address, he'll let you stay-"

"No, Frank, _no_." Gerard shook his head firmly, attempting to pull Frank to his feet. "I don't want to stay with him, I want to stay with you, I'm so sorry, I love you too, come on, _please_ , let's go, the hospital now-"

"No." Frank shook his head, sitting back down, and looking at the boy he loved with an odd, unplaceable kind of expression. "Listen to me, Gee, you go-" Frank reached for a pen and scribbled down Brendon's address onto the table, "look, there, I promise you, he's a real good guy, I've fucked him as well, but I've fucked all of my friends, so-"

"I'm not going to let you die, Frank, you're going to come with me, or I'll-" Gerard's eyes widened as he looked around the room, panicking, "I'll tell you much a good _fuck_ Bert was, how he's so much better than you, how he-" And Gerard instantly knew he'd struck a chord, but perhaps the wrong one, as Frank reached for the gun in his pocket.

"You fucking dare, you fucking _whore_ -"

"You wouldn't shoot me, Frank, come on, you _love_ me, come on, I'm sorry, I- I... just _please_ , let's go to the hospital, let's fix this, let's-"

"I wouldn't dare shoot you?" Frank scoffed, laughing a little.

"No, you wouldn't." And Gerard was certain, perhaps too certain, and as Frank smiled, and the two shared one last look, one final look: the look to end all looks, with blood, and injury, and one hell of a tragic end, one of the demolition lovers fell dead, and fell to their end, right there at Pete's kitchen table, certain to leave the other to die alone in little but agony.

And the address scribbled on the table, ignored until the very moment the police got there.

-

They'd questioned Brendon Urie about what they'd called a 'massacre', but he knew very little, and as he'd made his way back home, his boyfriend had asked him what it was all about, and he'd responded with, "some guy I once knew, Frank, he was all kinds of crazy, all kinds of nice too, but I guess you can think you know someone, but you never really _know_ them until you can figure out what the hell happened to them involving a mass shooting, and your address scribbled on the dining table."

"God," Ryan had shook his head in disbelief, simply relieved that Brendon was okay, the two sharing a kiss, and some sort unspoken understanding, only to be interrupted by another ring of the doorbell. "If it's that detective back again-" Ryan protested, shaking his head a little, as Brendon pulled away.

"Hey, who knows, Ry, it could be someone else entirely, couldn't it?" Brendon smiled at his boyfriend as he made his way to answer the front door.

-

 

-End- 


End file.
